“But suppose we refuse to go,” said Jack.

“Then, Monsieur, I shall detain your horses.  It is a law of le grand monarque.”

There was no dodging it.  The coach and horses came back to the inn door.  The passengers went out into the dark, rainy night to plod along in the mud, another six miles or so, that the seigneur and his suite could enjoy that comfort the weary travelers had been forced to leave.  Such was the power of privilege with which the great Louis had saddled his kingdom.

They proceeded to Ancenis, Angers and Breux.  From the latter city the road to Versailles was paved with flat blocks of stone.  There were swarms of beggars in every village and city crying out, with hands extended, as the coach passed them: 

“La charite, au nom de Dieu!”

“France is in no healthy condition when this is possible,” the young man wrote.

If he met a priest carrying a Bon Dieu in a silver vase every one called out, “Aux genoux!” and then the beholder had to kneel, even if the mud were ankle deep.  So on a wet day one’s knees were apt to be as muddy as his feet.

The last stage from Versailles to Paris was called the post royale.  There the postillion had to be dressed like a gentleman.  It was a magnificent avenue, crowded every afternoon by the wealth and beauty of the kingdom, in gorgeously painted coaches, and lighted at night by great lamps, with double reflectors, over its center.  They came upon it in the morning on their way to the capital.  There were few people traveling at that hour.  Suddenly ahead they saw a cloud of dust.  The stage stopped.  On came a band of horsemen riding at a wild gallop.  They were the King’s couriers.

“Clear the way,” they shouted.  “The King’s hunt is coming.”

All travelers, hearing this command, made quickly for the sidings, there to draw rein and dismount.  The deer came in sight, running for its life, the King close behind with all his train, the hounds in full cry.  Near Jack the deer bounded over a hedge and took a new direction.  His Majesty—­a short, stout man with blue eyes and aquiline nose, wearing a lace cocked hat and brown velvet coatee and high boots with spurs—­dismounted not twenty feet from the stage-coach, saying with great animation: 

“Vite!  Donnez moi un cheval frais.”

Instantly remounting, he bounded over the hedge, followed by his train.

2

A letter from Jack presents all this color of the journey and avers that he reached the house of Franklin in Passy about two o’clock in the afternoon of a pleasant May day.  The savant greeted his young friend with an affectionate embrace.

“Sturdy son of my beloved country, you bring me joy and a new problem,” he said.

“What is the problem?” Jack inquired.

“That of moving Margaret across the channel.  I have a double task now.  I must secure the happiness of America and of Jack Irons.”