"Why not? There is nothing to prevent it." "Then we are going?" "To the isles of St. Marguerite, my lord." The Count trembled inwardly. The islands of Lerins, or Sainte Marguerite, enjoyed at that time, even, a reputation almost as terrible as the one they acquired at a later date, when they served as a prison to the mysterious iron mask, whom it was forbidden to take even a glance at under penalty of death. The exempt looked at him fixedly without speaking. It was the Count who again resumed the conversation. "Where are we now?" he asked. The exempt bent out of the window, and then resumed his seat. "We are just arriving at Corbeil, where we shall change horses." "Ah!" said the Count. "If you wish to rest, I can give orders for an hour's stay. Perhaps you feel a want of some refreshment?" This singular man was gradually acquiring in the Count's eyes all the interest of an enigma. "Very good," he said. Without replying the exempt let down the window. "Wideawake!" he shouted. "What is the matter?" the latter asked. "Pull up at the Golden Lion." "All right." Ten minutes later the coach halted in the Rue St. Spire, in front of a door over which creaked a sign representing an enormous gilt cat, with one of its paws on a ball. They had arrived. The exempt got out, followed by the Count, and both entered the inn: one portion of the escort remained in the saddle in the street, while the others dismounted and installed themselves in the common room. The Count had mechanically followed the exempt, and on reaching the room, seated himself in a chair by the fire, in a first floor decently furnished room. He was too busy with his own thoughts to attach any great attention to what was going on around him. When the landlord had left them alone, the exempt bolted the door inside, and then placed himself in front of his prisoner. "Now," he said, "let us speak frankly, my lord." The latter, astonished at this sudden address, quickly raised his head. "We have no time to lose in coming to an understanding, sir; so please to listen without interrupting me," the exempt continued. "I am François Bouillot, the younger brother of your foster father. Do you recognise me?" "No," the Count replied, after examining him attentively for a moment. "That does not surprise me, for you were only eight years old the last time I had the honor of seeing you at Barmont Castle: but that is of no consequence; I am devoted to you, and wish to save you." "What assures me that you are really François Bouillot, the brother of my foster father, and that you are not attempting to deceive me?" the Count answered, in a suspicious accent. The exempt felt in his pocket, pulled out several papers, which he unfolded, and presented them open to the Count. The latter looked at them mechanically: they consisted of a baptismal certificate, a commission, and several letters proving his identity. The Count handed him the letters back.