The Count of Monte Cristo

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Furnished with this plunder, Andrea leaped with a lighter heart from the
window, intending to slip through the hands of the gendarmes. Tall and
well proportioned as an ancient gladiator, and muscular as a Spartan,
he walked for a quarter of an hour without knowing where to direct his
steps, actuated by the sole idea of getting away from the spot where if
he lingered he knew that he would surely be taken. Having passed through
the Rue Mont Blanc, guided by the instinct which leads thieves always to
take the safest path, he found himself at the end of the Rue Lafayette.
There he stopped, breathless and panting. He was quite alone; on one
side was the vast wilderness of the Saint-Lazare, on the other, Paris
enshrouded in darkness. "Am I to be captured?" he cried; "no, not if I
can use more activity than my enemies. My safety is now a mere question
of speed." At this moment he saw a cab at the top of the Faubourg
Poissonniere. The dull driver, smoking his pipe, was plodding along
toward the limits of the Faubourg Saint-Denis, where no doubt he
ordinarily had his station. "Ho, friend!" said Benedetto.