It was my father, whose interview with De Morny was over. He stood at the open door, and I saw the Duke, who had peeped out, and whose quick intelligence had taken in the whole affair in a flash, vanishing with a smile on his face. CHAPTER XIV THE RUINED ONES "Go home!" said my father, putting me into the carriage. "I will return on foot. You have disgraced yourself; you have disgraced me. Hand yourself over to Joubert. You are to be a prisoner under lock and key until I devise some punishment to meet your case." Then, to the coachman: "Home, Lubin!" He clapped the door on me, and I was driven off, with his speech ringing in my ears, a speech which I believe was meant as much for the gallery as for me. This was my first encounter with the Comte de Coigny, and I believe I had the worst of it. But I was not thinking of De Coigny--I was thinking of little Eloise, of the Countess whose beauty haunted me, and of the Count, that noble-looking gentleman, now in prison. Eloise had told me that their house in Paris was situated in the Faubourg St. Germain, and, as we turned out of the Rue de Lille, an inspiration came to me. I pulled the check-string, the carriage stopped, and I put my head out of the window. "Lubin!" "Well?" "Drive me to the Faubourg St. Germain." "Likely, indeed! and lose my place. Ma foi!--Faubourg St. Germain!" "Lubin! I have a napoleon in my pocket, and I'll give it you if----" But the carriage drove on. I sank back on the cushions, but I was not defeated yet. There was a block of traffic in the Rue de Trône. I put my hand out, opened the door on the left side, and the next moment I was standing upon the pavement, and the heavy old carriage was driving on, with the door swinging open. Then I ran, ran till I was out of breath, and in a broad street full of shops. A barrel-organ was playing in the sunshine; a herd of she-asses were trotting along, followed by an Auvergnat in sabots, and a cabriolet plying for hire was approaching on the opposite side of the way. I hailed the driver, and told him to take me to the Faubourg St. Germain. "Where to in the Faubourg St. Germain?" asked the man. "I want to go to the Count Feliciani's," I replied. "The Hôtel Feliciani?" "Yes" "Get in." He drove off. He knew the Hôtel Feliciani, did this driver. All Paris was ringing with the disgrace of the man who, from his throne in the kingdom of finance, had fallen to the gutter, involving a thousand others in his ruin. But I knew nothing of this; and from the man's unconcerned manner I began to hope that De Coigny had told me a lie.