All this seemed a dream to me. Half an hour ago I was asleep in my chamber in the Bastille, and now I was whirled through the dark and empty streets of Paris, past the great arsenal, the Isles St. Louis and Louvier, and along the banks of the Seine; the barriers had opened and shut behind us like magic, for the Countess had obtained the parole from the captain of the watch, and now we were driving among hedges, trees, and fields in the open and star-lighted country. The hands of the Countess were in mine, and her left cheek rested on my shoulder. My heart was full of tumultuous joy, but not unmixed with alarm, for there were more pleasant positions in the world than finding oneself the favoured rival of Louis XIII.--one who had Bastilles, lettres de cachet, gendarmerie, mousquetaires of the guard, and the devil only knows all what more at his command. Yet I was happy, and, in secret, sometimes pressed the hand of Nicola, who sat silent in a corner, and quite in the dark. At last the fiacre stopped suddenly, and we alighted at the private entrance of the Château d'Amboise, which was involved in obscurity. Antoine--the discreet and invaluable Antoine--received us, and in ten minutes after I found myself in an apartment familiar to me, and locally known as the Red Chamber. It was completely hung with red amboisienne--a species of silk manufactured at the old town of Amboise, in Touraine, an ancient fief of the former lords of this château, in whose stronghold, similarly named and situated on the Loire, Charles VIII. of France died, Louis XI. founded the Order of St. Michael, and the Guises planned their formidable conspiracy against the Huguenots in 1560. The silk in the chamber was old and faded; but could it have spoken, it might have told me of a terrible story, for within its four walls was done a dreadful crime. Here perished Monsieur of France in 1471, and with him a lady whom he loved with all the devotion of chivalry. 'Monsieur adored,' says the quaint historian of France, 'a daughter of the Lord of Monsoreau, and widow of Louis d'Amboise, who had for confessor a certain Benedictine monk, named Jean Favre Versois, abbot of St. Jean d'Angely. This wicked monk poisoned a very fair peach, and gave it to that lady, who, at a collation, put it to steep in wine, and presented one half to the prince, while eating of the other herself. She, being tender, died in a short time; but the prince, being of a more robust nature, sustained for some time the assault of the venom, but could not conquer it, and in the end, yielded up his life thereto.' (_De Mezeray_, fol., 1683.) CHAPTER XXXIII. IN WHICH I BECOME AN ABBÉ.