I had not thought of this, nor of the dilemma in which my presence must place her.

“I can open the door softly,” said I, “and jump out unperceived.”

“Impossible, at the pace we are going!  You would break your neck.”

I shook my head, and laughed bitterly.

“Have no fear of that, Madame,” I said.  “Those who least value their necks never happen to break them.  See, I can spring out as we pass the next turning, and be out of sight in a moment.”

“Indeed, I will not permit it.  Oh, dear! we have already reached the Faubourg St. Germain.  Stay—­I have an idea I Do you know what o’clock it is?”

“I don’t know how long I may have slept; but I think it must be quite three.”

“Bien!  The Countess de Blois has a ball to-night, and her visitors are sure not to disperse before four or five.  My sister is there.  I will send in to ask if she has yet gone home, and when the carriage stops you can slip out.  Here is the Rue de Bac, and the door of her hotel is yet surrounded with equipages.”

And with this, she let down a front window, desired the coachman to stop, leaned forward so as to hide me completely, and sent in her footman with the message.  When the man had fairly entered the hall, she turned to me and said:—­

“Now, Monsieur, fly!  It is your only chance.”

“I go, Madame; but before going, suffer me to assure you that I know neither your name, nor that of the person for whom you mistook me—­that I have no idea of your place of residence—­that I should not know you if I saw you again to-morrow—­in short, that you are to me as entirely a stranger as if this adventure had never happened.”

“Monsieur, I thank you for the assurance; but I see the servant returning.  Pray, begone!”

I sprang out without another word, and, never once looking back, darted down a neighboring street and waited in the shadow of a doorway till I thought the carriage must be out of sight.

The night was now fine, the moon was up, and the sky was full of stars.  But I heeded nothing, save my own perplexed and painful thoughts.  Absorbed in these, I followed the course of the Rue du Bac till I came to the Pont National.  There my steps were arrested by the sight of the eddying river, the long gleaming front of the Louvre, the quaint, glistening gables of the Tuilleries, the far-reaching trees of the Champs Elysees all silvered in the soft, uncertain moonlight.  It was a most calm and beautiful picture; and I stood for a long time leaning against the parapet of the bridge, and looking dreamily at the scene before me.  Then I heard the quarters chime from belfry to belfry all over the quiet city, and found that it was half-past three o’clock.  Presently a patrol of gendarmes went by, and, finding that they paused and looked at me suspiciously, I turned away, and bent my steps homewards.

By the time I reached the Cite Bergere it was past four, and the early market-carts were already rumbling along the Rue du Faubourg Montmartre.  Going up wearily to my apartments, I found a note waiting for me in Dalrymple’s handwriting.  It ran thus:—­