"_Mon Dieu!_" exclaimed Bluet, consoling to the last, "_sans doute_, a beautiful home. Monsieur must well remember--even I, a prison watch-dog, have heard of it--the Hôtel de Chevagny. Monsieur will doubtless go there. And, _parbleu!_ when I have a day's release from my labours, I shall make a little visit to the marquis. He will be glad to see his old friend and servant, Bluet _N'est ce pas?_" "Yes," the marquis whispered, dazed, as it seemed to the others, by his freedom--"yes, I shall always be glad to see you, Bluet. Let us go--let us go," and he held out his hand to the turnkey, as did Bertie. "Hôtel de Chevagny," said Bluet to the driver; "you know it without doubt. Away with you to the house of the noble marquis!" "De Chevagny!" said the man from his box--"De Chevagny! No, I know it not. What is the quarter?" "St. Germain, naturally. Monsieur," looking in again at the window, "the name of the street--of the street, monsieur?" he repeated, seeing that the marquis appeared to scarcely understand him. But a moment later he muttered: "The Rue Charles Martel. That is it." "Bon!" said the coachman, he having caught the words--"_bon!_ Rue Charles Martel," and as once more Bluet exchanged farewells with them, he lashed his horse and drove off, while De Chevagny cast one last look on the Bastille and shuddered. "Forty-five years," he murmured, "forty-five years. A young man when I entered there, an old man now--worn out and near his end." "Nay, nay," said Bertie, "do not think so. Remember, you may find many alive who are still dear to you. Let us pray so at least." But the marquis, burying his head in the collar of his cloak, spoke no more, though Bertie, regarding him from time to time, saw that he was gazing out and observing the places they passed by; and as they traversed the Pont Neuf, he observed a brighter look in his face than he had hitherto seen. "This, at least, has not changed," he muttered. "It is the same as when I was young--as when I passed over it to go to the Bastille. Forty-five years ago!--forty-five years ago!" Presently--for it was no great distance from the Quartier St. Antoine to that of St. Germain--the hackney coach arrived at the end of the Rue Charles Martel; a long, sad-looking street, having high walls all along it into which were set great wooden gates, and behind which were large courtyards belonging to the various mansions or hotels of the nobility. Yet, as they entered this street and observed a large, modern, and very gaunt-looking house, De Chevagny seemed more bewildered than ever, and raised his finger to his forehead as though confused. "I--I--do not understand," he said. "Has the man mistaken the way? Bellancourt's house stood here--years ago--when I was a lad. I have played in the gardens often--oh, so often, with his children! It was an old, old house, built in the days of Henri of Navarre. Where is it? That is not it."