Father Bonneville answered without the slightest heat, that he must do so if he pleased; that we were at his mercy; but that he was bound, if possible to take us to the next post-house.
Seeing that this menace had produced no effect upon the quiet and gentle spirit of the good old man, the postillion now determined to try another manœuvre, and grumbled forth that he knew very well we were aristocrats, seeking to fly from the country, and that therefore, like a good citizen, he should turn his horses round, drive us back, and denounce us at the municipality.
I had listened anxiously to the conversation, with a heart beating with the fear of being stopped, and indignation at the man’s conduct. At length a sudden thought struck me—what suggested it I do not know—nor how it arose, nor whether indeed thought had any thing to do with it, though I have called it a thought. It was more an impulse—an instinct—a sudden determination taken without reason, which made me clamber with the activity of a monkey over the back of the seat on which I was sitting, and snatch up the reins and the whip which the postillion had laid down upon the foot-board. I was determined to be out of France at all events, whoever staid behind; and I cut the horses on either flank without waiting to give notice or ask permission. I had once or twice driven a cart, loaded with flour, from the mill by the banks of the stream, up to Father Bonneville’s house and back again. I had not the slightest fear in the world; Father Bonneville cried, “Stop, stop!” but I drove on.
Madame de Salins gave a timid cry of surprise and fear, but I drove on. The postillion ran shouting and blaspheming after the carriage and tried to catch the reins; but I gave him a tremendous cut over the face with the whip, and drove on.
I know not what possessed me; but I seemed as if I was suddenly set free—free from the oppressive shackles of everlasting fear, and forethought and anxiety. The frontier of France was behind me. I was in a land where there were no guillotines—no spies, as I thought—no denouncers—no sans-culottes with bloody heads upon their pikes. I was free—to act, and to think, and to speak, and to come, and to go, as I liked. The cold, leaden, heavy spell of terror which had hung upon me was broke the moment I passed that frontier line, and the first use I made of my disenchantment was to drive the horses down that hill like a madman. Father Bonneville held tight on by the side of the carriage. Madame de Salins caught up Mariette, and clasped her tightly in her arms; but still I drove on without trepidation or pause; not that I disregarded the commands of my good preceptor: not that I was insensible to the alarm of Madame de Salins; but a spirit was upon me that I could not resist. I had no fear, and therefore I saw not why they should have any. The course I was pursuing seemed to my young notions to offer the only chance of safety, and therefore I thought they ought to rejoice as well as myself; and on I went, making the dry dust of a March day fly up into clouds along our course, and leaving the unhappy postillion, cursing and swearing, far, far behind us.
Happily for me, the horses were docile, and had been long accustomed to run between the two post-houses. If they had had a will of their own, and that will had been contrary to mine, I am very much afraid the majority of heads and legs would have carried the question; but they comprehended the object of which I aimed, and though unaccustomed to the hand that drove them, yielded readily to its direction—which was lucky—for about half-way down the hill there was an enormous stone in the middle of the road, which would have inevitably sent us rolling down into the middle of the valley if either of the off wheels had come in contact with it. The third horse puzzled me a little; but it did not matter. They had but one way to go, and we got to the bottom of the hill without accident.
“Stop them, stop them, Louis,” cried Father Bonneville, when all danger was in reality passed.
“I cannot just yet, Father,” I replied, tugging a little at the reins, “but they will go slower in a moment themselves;” and for nearly a mile we went on at a full gallop. Then the good beasts fell easily into a canter, with the exception of one, who shook his head and tugged at the rein when I attempted to bring him in, but soon yielded to the influence of example, and was reduced to a trot as speedily as the other two.
When our pace was brought to a speed of about eight miles an hour, I looked round joyously into the carriage, saying—“We have left that rogue far behind.”
“Louis, Louis, you should not have done this!” exclaimed Father Bonneville, shaking his head.