Madeleine de Mortsauf took Clotilde by the arm and allowed Lucien to talk. They thus walked on as far as the village of Grez. It was now eight o’clock, and there Clotilde dismissed Lucien. “Well, my friend,” said she, closing this long interview with much dignity, “I never shall marry any one but you. I would rather believe in you than in other men, in my father and mother--no woman ever gave greater proof of attachment surely?--Now, try to counteract the fatal prejudices which militate against you.” Just then the tramp of galloping horses was heard, and, to the great amazement of the ladies, a force of gendarmes surrounded the little party. “What do you want?” said Lucien, with the arrogance of a dandy. “Are you Monsieur Lucien de Rubempre?” asked the public prosecutor of Fontainebleau. “Yes, monsieur.” “You will spend to-night in La Force,” said he. “I have a warrant for the detention of your person.” “Who are these ladies?” asked the sergeant. “To be sure.--Excuse me, ladies--your passports? For Monsieur Lucien, as I am instructed, had acquaintances among the fair sex, who for him would----” “Do you take the Duchesse de Lenoncourt-Chaulieu for a prostitute?” said Madeleine, with a magnificent flash at the public prosecutor. “You are handsome enough to excuse the error,” the magistrate very cleverly retorted. “Baptiste, produce the passports,” said the young Duchess with a smile. “And with what crime is Monsieur de Rubempre charged?” asked Clotilde, whom the Duchess wished to see safe in the carriage. “Of being accessory to a robbery and murder,” replied the sergeant of gendarmes. Baptiste lifted Mademoiselle de Grandlieu into the chaise in a dead faint. By midnight Lucien was entering La Force, a prison situated between the Rue Payenne and the Rue des Ballets, where he was placed in solitary confinement. The Abbe Carlos Herrera was also there, having been arrested that evening. THE END OF EVIL WAYS At six o’clock next morning two vehicles with postilions, prison vans, called in the vigorous language of the populace, _paniers a salade_, came out of La Force to drive to the Conciergerie by the Palais de Justice. Few loafers in Paris can have failed to meet this prison cell on wheels; still, though most stories are written for Parisian readers, strangers will no doubt be satisfied to have a description of this formidable machine. Who knows? A police of Russia, Germany, or Austria, the legal body of countries to whom the “Salad-basket” is an unknown machine, may profit by it; and in several foreign countries there can be no doubt that an imitation of this vehicle would be a boon to prisoners.