CHAPTER XXX.
Conclusion.
There is but little else to record.
History has told us how, shamefaced, tired, dripping, the great, all-powerful people of Paris quietly slunk back to their homes, even before the first cock-crow in the villages beyond the gates, acclaimed the pale streak of dawn.
But long before that, even before the church bells of the great city had tolled the midnight hour, Sir Percy Blakeney and his little band of followers had reached the little tavern which stands close to the farthest gate of Pere Lachaise.
Without a word, like six silent ghosts, they had traversed the vast cemetery, and reached the quiet hostelry, where the sounds of the seething revolution only came, attenuated by their passage through the peaceful city of the dead.
English gold had easily purchased silence and good will from the half-starved keeper of this wayside inn.

A huge travelling chaise already stood in readiness, and four good Flanders horses had been pawing the ground impatiently for the past half hour.

From the window of the chaise old Petronelle's face, wet with anxious tears, was peering anxiously.
A cry of joy and surprise escaped Deroulede and Juliette, and both turned, with a feeling akin to awe, towards the wonderful man who had planned and carried through this bold adventure.
"Nay, my friend," said Sir Percy, speaking more especially to Deroulede; "if you only knew how simple it all was! Gold can do so many things, and my only merit seems to be the possession of plenty of that commodity.
You told me yourself how you had provided for old Petronelle.

Under the most solemn assurance that she would meet her young mistress here, I got her to leave Paris.

She came out most bravely this morning in one of the market carts.