I heard a sigh behind me, and turning, met the timid blue eyes of Nicola. 'Dear Mademoiselle Nicola,' said I, taking her hands in mine (and plump, warm little hands they were), 'I have thought of you and your kindness to me often, very often, in my loneliness here.' I dared not kiss her pretty hands before the Countess; for, with all her loveliness, Nicola was but a waiting-maid; yet there was a difference in the manner and style of these two women that impressed me, and gave me occasion for much grave reflection afterwards. 'So, M. Blane, I have come to take you from the Bastille, whither the unfortunate work of M. Poussin brought you; and in future, when going to sleep under a tree, pray take care to button up your pourpoint--though never again shall you have a miniature of mine.' 'It would be needless; my heart bears all that is requisite.' 'Madame,' said Nicola, impatiently, 'the clock of the Bastille is striking two.' 'Let us go, then,' said Clara, resuming her velvet mask; and preceded by Martin Omelette and a few other armed officials, we descended the hateful labyrinth of passages, stairs, and corridors to the court of the fortress, where the governor, hastily wrapped in a cloak, stood near the gate to receive the credentials of my release from the Countess, whose face he endeavoured, but in vain, to discover through the holes in her black velvet mask. He restored to me my sword and belt, and a fierce and proud emotion swelled within me as I buckled them on. 'When free,' I whispered impetuously to Clara, 'I will no longer be the slave of a capricious king.' 'Have you quite lost your senses, M. Blane!' said she, placing a hand on my mouth, 'or do you forget the saying of Catherine de Medicis, that walls may have ears?' 'I shall be alike silent and at your service.' 'Come with me to Amboise--the château, I mean.' 'But,' said I, spitefully, remembering my former incarceration in the cabinet, 'what if the King--' 'The King is seriously indisposed; a fever has quite prostrated him.' 'Despite the Queen's pilgrimage to St. Fiacre?' 'And the prayers of Ninon's lover, Monseigneur the Archbishop of Paris--he is very ill.' 'Long may he remain so!' said I, angrily, as I thrust on my hat, and we heard the gate of that detested prison closed behind us. The morning air was cold. The sky was dark, and the giant mass of that formidable donjon keep frowned gloomily over us, with all its towers and terrors. Nicola trembled and shrunk close to my side. I trembled, too, but it was with joy, ardour, and impatience to be beyond the precincts of that historical prison. I hurried past M. le Capitaine du Chatelet, forgetting even to bid farewell to poor Martin, who had become so attached to me that he actually wept at letting me go once more into the world; and handing the Countess and Nicola into a fiacre that awaited us near the Porte St. Antoine, we were driven rapidly off.