obscure though comparatively recent episodes of history we have nothing to do. Facts alone--undeniable and undenied--must be left to speak for themselves. It was but meet that these men--amongst whom were to be found the bearers of some of the noblest names in France--should be tracked down and brought to justice by one whose personality has continued to be as complete an enigma as their own.Who could blame him? I say.  Surely, not the Impérial Government up in Paris who did not know how to protect its citizens from the depredations of such villains, and had not even succeeded in making the high road between Caen and Alençon safe for peaceable travellers.

Inside the coach the passengers were at last giving tongue to their indignation.  Highway robbery at six o'clock in the afternoon, and the evening not a very dark one at that!  It were monstrous, outrageous, almost incredible, did not the empty pockets and ransacked valises testify to the scandalous fact.  M. Fouché, Duc d'Otrante, was drawing a princely salary as Minister of Police, and yet allowed a mail-coach to be held up and pillaged--almost by daylight and within five kilomètres of the county town!

The last half-hour of the eventful journey flew by like magic: there was so much to say that it became impossible to keep count of time. Alençon was reached before everyone had had a chance of saying just what he or she thought of the whole affair, or of consigning M. le Duc d'Otrante and all his myrmidons to that particular chamber in Hades which was most suitable for their crimes.

Outside the "Adam et Ève," where Gontran finally drew rein, there was a gigantic clatter and din as the passengers tumbled out of the coach, and by the dim light of the nearest street lantern tried to disentangle their own belongings from the pile of ransacked valises which the ostlers had unceremoniously tumbled out in a heap upon the cobble stones.  Everyone was talking--no one in especial seemed inclined to listen--anecdotes of former outrages committed by the Chouans were bandied to and fro.

Gontran, leaning against the entrance of the inn, a large mug of steaming wine in his hand, watched with philosophic eye his former passengers, struggling with their luggage.  One or two of them were going to spend the night at the "Adam et Ève": they had already filed past him into the narrow passage beyond, where they were now deep in an altercation with Gilles Blaise, the proprietor, on the subject of the price and the situation of their rooms; others had homes or friends in the city, and with their broken valises and bundles in their hands 

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