“Good!” responded Jacques, “we shall assist him! It is no doubt fortunate after all.” The last riders had passed through, and the porters were coming with their keys to unlock the gates. The neighbouring chateau clock struck six with a cracked tone; and the great gates were slowly yielding, to allow time for the Swiss sentries to cross through. They came together to their usual place with a clash; the crowd poured each way between again, among the various country vehicles and market-carts, the passengers and riders, from or to the city, or the town of Versailles—for a few minutes in such sudden disorder as almost to hurl the bystanders from the carriage when it drove forward; save the young man, the teacher, who had held by it for security, and in the attempt to balance himself was urged so close as to seize the hood of the barouche, already in motion. An unaccountable repugnance shot from the young lady’s look and attitude as she started back, extricating her shawl from the accidental clutch—till her heart reproached her next moment at his thorough expression of apology mixed with alarm, for Jackson drove furiously down-hill. She was in vain calling him to stop, when she saw her brother spring up quick as thought, look round, and hurl their unintentional fellow-passenger backward on the road. “Drive on, Jackson,” shouted Charles, triumphantly. “Serves him right—the very fellow’s face that I detested!” Panniered market-asses, hastening pedestrians and boys, alone mingled with their speed across the bridge, past the _chemin des affronteux_, into Charlemont; the sudden howl of indignation from the groups behind them had died away. “What on earth is the matter with you, Jackson?” called out the lad, starting up again, as they reached about the middle of the village street; “why don’t you drive on? Never mind watering your horses!” “They’ve got a couple of farm-waggons and some hampers right across the way, sir,” replied Jackson, turning about from his box, with an undertone as much from misgiving as respect. A shadowy mass blocked up the passage before them, looking vague in the dusk. It was opposite the door of a shabby _auberge_ or village inn, with the sign of the Fleur-de-lis. Charles stood up to call out in French, and a gendarme in coarse blue uniform advanced to the side of the carriage, civilly enough, as if to answer his inquiries. “You have injured a respectable person, it is said, monsieur,” was the reply of the functionary, in a lowered voice—“a man of influence in the place here.” “Wilfully, too, it seems!” added a villager, sharply, and turning to the crowd, which in a few seconds gathered about the speakers. “Yes, yes—our schoolmaster—a philosopher—an estimable man—M. Morin!” was the general response, rising to a climax: “see him there, assisted by every one to reach the spot!”