The provost proceeded half a league farther along the road; but coming to the conclusion that pursuit was useless, he sent one of his men to headquarters, to warn all the points of exit from the province, and himself returned with his troop to the place whence he had started in the morning. The marquis had relatives in the neighbourhood, and it was quite possible that he might seek shelter with some of them. All the village ran to meet the horsemen, who were obliged to confess that they had been duped by the handsome prisoner. Different views were expressed on the event, which gave rise to much talking. The provost entered the inn, banging his fist on the furniture, and blaming everybody for the misfortune which had happened to him. The daughter of the house, at first a prey to the most grievous anxiety, had great difficulty in concealing her joy. The provost spread his papers over the table, as if to nurse his ill-temper. “The biggest rascal in the world!” he cried; “I ought to have suspected him.” “What a handsome man he was!” said the hostess. “A consummate rascal! Do you know who he is? He is the Marquis de Saint-Maixent!” “The Marquis de Saint-Maixent!” all cried with horror. “Yes, the very man,” replied the provost; “the Marquis de Saint-Maixent, accused, and indeed convicted, of coining and magic.” “Ah!” “Convicted of incest.” “O my God!” “Convicted of having strangled his wife to marry another, whose husband he had first stabbed.” “Heaven help us!” All crossed themselves. “Yes, good people,” continued the furious provost, “this is the nice boy who has just escaped the king’s justice!” The host’s daughter left the room, for she felt she was going to faint. “But,” said the host, “is there no hope of catching him again?” “Not the slightest, if he has taken the road to the Bourbonnais; for I believe there are in that province noblemen belonging to his family who will not allow him to be rearrested.” The fugitive was, indeed, no other than the Marquis de Saint-Maixent, accused of all the enormous crimes detailed by the provost, who by his audacious flight opened for himself an active part in the strange story which it remains to relate. It came to pass, a fortnight after these events, that a mounted gentleman rang at the wicket gate of the chateau de Saint-Geran, at the gates of Moulins. It was late, and the servants were in no hurry to open. The stranger again pulled the bell in a masterful manner, and at length perceived a man running from the bottom of the avenue. The servant peered through the wicket, and making out in the twilight a very ill-appointed traveller, with a crushed hat, dusty clothes, and no sword, asked him what he wanted, receiving a blunt reply that the stranger wished to see the Count de Saint-Geran without any further loss of time. The servant replied that this was impossible; the other got into a passion. “Who are you?” asked the man in livery.