“Go quickly then, M. Chicot,” said the man.

Chicot was in the street at last.  The night was not favorable for flight, being bright and cloudless, and he regretted the foggy nights of Paris, where people might pass close to each other unseen.  The unfortunate fugitive had no sooner turned the corner of the street than he met a patrol.  He stopped of himself, thinking it would look suspicious to try and pass unseen.

“Oh, good-evening, M. Chicot!” said the chief; “shall we reconduct you to the palace?  You seem as though you had lost your way.”

“It is very strange,” murmured Chicot, “every one knows me here.”  Then aloud, and as carelessly as he could, “No, cornet, I am not going to the palace.”

“You are wrong, M. Chicot,” replied the officer, gravely.

“Why so, monsieur?”

“Because a very severe edict forbids the inhabitants of Nerac to go out at night without permission and without a lantern.”

“Excuse me, monsieur, but this edict cannot apply to me, who do not belong to Nerac.”

“But you are at Nerac.  Inhabitant means living at; now you cannot deny that you live at Nerac, since I see you here.”

“You are logical, monsieur.  Unluckily, I am in a hurry; make an exception to your rule, and let me pass, I beg.”

“You will lose yourself, M. Chicot; Nerac is a strange town.  Allow three of my men to conduct you to the palace.”

“But I am not going there, I tell you.”

“Where are you going, then?”

“I cannot sleep well at night, and then I always walk.  Nerac is a charming city, and I wish to see it.”

“My men shall conduct you where you please.”

“Oh, monsieur, I would rather go alone.”

“You will be assassinated.”

“I have my sword.”

“Ah, true; then you will be arrested for bearing arms.”

Chicot, driven to despair, drew the officer aside, and said: 

“Come, monsieur, you are young; you know what love is—­an imperious tyrant.”

“Doubtless, M. Chicot.”

“Well, cornet, I have a certain lady to visit.”

“Where?”

“In a certain place.”

“Young?”

“Twenty-three years old.”

“Beautiful?”

“As the graces.”

“I felicitate you, M. Chicot.”

“Then you will let me pass?”

“It seems I must.”

“And alone; I cannot compromise—­”

“Of course not; pass on, M. Chicot.”

“You are a gallant man, cornet.  But how did you know me?”

“I saw you at the palace with the king.  Apropos, which way are you going?”

“Toward the Porte of Agen.  Am I not in the right road?”

“Yes, go straight on; I wish you success.”

“Thank you;” and Chicot went on.  But before he had taken a hundred steps he met the watch.

“Peste! this town is well guarded,” thought Chicot.