Mack rode through town at a smart trot, and came to the bridge over the Aire. It was not a large bridge.
It had a stone bed and it was buttressed from beneath by timber balks cut in the nearby Ardennes.
Below it, the Aire river flowed placidly by on its journey to the sea.
The bridge was crowded, for even at this hour there were a number of carts upon it, filled with produce and driven by snappy-tempered fellows with sharp whips. It was obvious at once that nothing could get through; certainly nothing as big and cumbersome as the king's yellow coach. Drouet or not, the bridge was blocked. Unless… Mack decided to take a high hand.
"Clear the way!" he cried. "Hot stuff coming through!"
There was a chorus of protesting cries. Mack assumed the role of traffic policeman, waving this one to go forward and that one to back up, all of the time shouting, "In the name of the Committee on Public Safety." Cursing, hooting, drinking, whistling, but also deeply impressed, the cartmen tried to obey his orders. But as fast as Mack got a cart off, more carts piled onto the bridge. They seemed to be coming from all over, carts of all sizes and shapes, carts filled with manure, apples, corn, wheat, and other products of the ingenious French and their Belgian neighbors. Cursing and sweating, Mack stood in the center of them and tried to direct traffic. But where in hell were all these carts coming from? He kicked up his horse and, with Marguerite following, pressed through the cart traffic jam and crossed the river.
On the other side, he went around a little bend and came across a tall white-clad figure with an unearthly light glowing around him even in broad daylight. This figure was directing cart traffic toward the bridge.
"Who are your Mack demanded. "And what do you think you're doing?"
"Oops," the white-clad figure said. "You weren't supposed to see me."
At that moment Mephistopheles materialized, horse and all, beside Mack. He looked at the white-clad figure and exclaimed, "Michael! What are you doing?"
"I was just sending some carts into Varennes," Michael said, his expression somewhat sulky.
"And causing a traffic jam," Mephistopheles said, "and thereby impeding our contestant. You are interfering with the contest, Michael, and this is not permitted even of an archangel."
"Nor is it allowed to a fiend," Michael said. "I'm doing no more than you've done."
Mephistopheles glared at him. "I think we had better discuss this in private."
Michael glanced at Mack and pursed his lips. "Yes. There are matters that no human should hear." The two spirits dematerialized.
CHAPTER 12
Mack rushed back to the bridge. It was jammed, packed, loaded, overburdened, and suffused throughout its length and width with carts and their attendant horses and drivers. There were carts to the right and carts to the left and low, lean carts between. Mack raged among them, trying to get some order. But more and more carts came piling onto the bridge, drawn there by Michael's promise of early morning price reductions at the big market in Varennes.
The pilings groaned ominously. Then one last cart piled high with dried herring from the Baltic shouldered itself onto the bridge. There was a creak of tortured timbers, and then the whole thing gave way.
Mack scrambled off the bridge just in time to save himself a dunking. The bridge collapsed in slow motion, and carts fell dreamily into the limpid waters of the Aire. A many-throated cry of chagrin could be heard, and a great bellowing of oxen. Then there was silence. And then, from the distance, could be heard a jingling sound—the harness of the king's horses as the royal coach came up the road and pulled to a halt before the ruined bridge.
Losing no time, Mack hurried over to the royal coach. "Your Majesty!" he said. There is still time."
"What are you talking about?" Marie Antoinette asked. "The bridge is blocked. We are undone."
"Yet there is still a way," Mack said.
"What is that, pray tell?"
"Get out of the coach at once, Your Majesties. We will purchase horses from the yokels about here and ride, back at first toward Paris, that will throw them off the trail, then we will take another branching and get across the frontier to safety. There is still time to effect your escape."
Louis turned to his wife. "What do you think?"
"Sounds too risky to me," Marie Antoinette said.
The king demurred, and Marie didn't think much of the scheme, but finally they agreed. Mack coaxed them out of the coach. They stood in the early morning light looking more than a little stupid, and as if unused to standing on their own feet on the ground. Mack hurried away and hired horses. He had calculated that they could still get out of this. After all, no one knew the king was here. No one except Drouet, and he had left him securely trussed back in Saint-Menehould.
The king approached the horse Mack had gotten for him, and somewhat hesitantly got up on it. Then Marie Antoinette climbed up on the other horse. At last, all was in readiness.
But then, just before they could ride off, a cloud of dust appeared down the road and grew larger and separated into separate riders. It was Drouet, and he was at the head of a thousand armed men.
Spotting the big yellow coach he cried, "The king and queen! Put them under arrest! They must return to Paris immediately!"
Guardsmen did as he bid. Drouet rode up to Mack.
"So, we meet again. You did me a poor service back there, citizen. I think I'll do the same for you."
Gesturing to two guards, he said, "This man is a counterrevolutionary. Seize him!"
Mack said, "Just tell me one thing. How did you get here so quickly?"
"Not through your help," Drouet said. "Luckily for me, this gentleman came along and rendered assistance."
Another rider trotted up and Mack saw that it was Faust.
"You again!" he breathed.
Faust smiled smugly. "I got away from the soldiers easily enough, and then I found this fellow and helped him, and so put paid to your scheme."
Then Mephistopheles appeared. "Let that man go," he said to Drouet.
Drouet was badly frightened by the demon, but he blustered, "We're holding this man for the tribunal."
Mephistopheles said, "Sorry. Supernatural matters take precedence. This is the end of the contest."
He reached out and put his hand on Mack's shoulder. They vanished together. A moment later, Marguerite vanished, too.
JUDGMENT
CHAPTER 1
After Mephistopheles conjured him away from Varennes, there was a break in the continuity of Mack's consciousness. He fell into dreams of a strange sort, but the details swam out of his grasp. Then there was a period of sleep, and finally, Mack awoke.
He found himself lying on a green couch in a hazy, indistinct sort of place. He tried to make out details, but they fuzzed before his eyes. Still, he knew of only one place that had this sort of green couch. He had to be in Mephistopheles' office in Limbo!
He got up and looked around. Through a low archway there was another room, and in it was the storage locker with the salvaged Botticelli.
There was the sound of a door opening and Mack turned, ready for trouble. Ylith came in. She was wearing a beige sheath dress that came down to midcalf on her fine legs. Her long dark hair was worn in a soft upsweep and pinned in place by imitation tortoiseshell combs. Her face was customarily pale, but a quick dab of rouge had put dots of color in her cheeks.
"It's all over," she said. "That was the last sequence where you needed to make a choice."
"I thought that's what Mephistopheles said! What happens now?"
"Now the judging begins. That's where I'm going. I just stopped by to see how you were."
"That was good of you. I don't suppose I was invited to the judging?"
"Not that I know of," Ylith said.
"That's very like them," Mack said with some bitterness. "Mephistopheles was all smiles and attention when there was something he wanted me to do, but now that it's over I don't even get asked to the celebration."