Behind these evident scions of the _haut monde_ there walked a young serving man, or servitor, dressed in a sober, faded-leaf coloured costume yet having on his head a great hat from which the long cocks-plumes depended and fell over his face, and, at his side, a stout rapier of the Flamberg order. Drawing near to the carriage at which one or two passers-by were looking curiously, while one of the night-watch who happened to be in the neighbourhood was doing the same, one of the two young men turned round to the servitor behind and said:-- "Jean, have you left word that we shall return at midnight from the masquerade and that we shall require supper?" "I have, Monsieur le Vicomte." "So be it. Therefore, Pierre," said the vicomte, addressing his friend, "let us away. Already the first dance will be over and, _me confond!_ there are plenty of _beaux yeux_ will be looking for our arrival. Fellows," glancing up at the coachman and footman on the box, "set out. And miss not your way. Remember," speaking loudly and harshly, "'tis to the Rue de la Dauphine we go; to the house of Monsieur le Marquis de Vieuxchastel. If you proceed not straight you shall be whipped to-morrow. You hear, dog?" "I hear, Monsieur le Vicomte," the coachman answered in a surly tone, though, as he did so, he turned his head and looked at a bystander under the oil lamp, and thrust his tongue into his cheek and winked and muttered an offensive word. "So be it," the vicomte said, as he got into the carriage after his friend and while the servitor clambered up behind. "So be it. Now be off. Do you hear, beasts? _En route_ for the Rue de la Dauphine." Slowly, therefore, because all large vehicles progressed but heavily over the uneven roads of Paris, the great carriage went on its way; though, since, instead of at once crossing the Pont Neuf--which is so old!--it continued to remain on the north side of the river, it would seem that the coachman had, in truth, missed his way in spite of the injunctions of the vicomte. Soon, too, by following this route, the carriage was underneath the frowning towers of the Bastille and passing by the moat in front of the great door, and so went on through the Marais and past old streets and, at last, past old houses standing alone and having, in some cases, thatched roofs. A few minutes later it neared the Porte St. Antoine with its great wooden, iron-studded gate closed for the night. But, here, by the side of the road, which was but a mass of dry mud, there stood a house, or rather cottage, with a penthouse roof, having outside of it a staircase leading to the upper floor. A house that had, also, a long wall running at right angles from it which threw a darkness deeper than that of the starlight night itself over all beneath it.