“To the Bastille?” he demanded, as if he could scarcely realize the event.

“To the Bastille.  In a big travelling-coach, between the officer and his men.  He may be there by this time.”

He looked at me as if he were still not quite able to believe the thing.

“It is true, monsieur.  If I were inventing it I could not invent anything better; but it is true.”

“Certes, you could not invent anything better!  Nor anything half so good.  If ever there was a case of the biter bit—­” he broke off, laughing.

“Monsieur, you know not half how funny it was.  Had you seen their faces—­the more Lucas swore he was not Comte de Mar, the more the officer was sure he was.”

“Felix, you have all the luck.  I said this morning you should go about no more without me.  Then I send you off on a stupid errand, and see what you get into!”

“Monsieur, I put it to you:  Had you been there, how could Lucas have been arrested for Comte de Mar?”

“He won’t stay arrested long—­more’s the pity.”

“No,” I said regretfully; “but they may keep him overnight.”

“Aye, he may be out of mischief overnight.  I am happy to say that my face is not known at the Bastille.”

“Nor his, I take it.  I thought from what I heard last night that he had never been in Paris save for a while in the spring, when he lay perdu.  At the Bastille they may know nothing of the existence of a Paul de Lorraine.  But, monsieur, if Mayenne has broken his word already, if they are arresting you on this trumped-up charge, you must get out of the gates to-night.”

“Impossible,” he answered, smiling; “I have an engagement in Paris.”

“But monsieur may not keep it.  He must go to St. Denis.”

“I must go nowhere but to the Hotel Lorraine.”

“Monsieur!”

“Why, look you, Felix; it is the safest spot for me in all Paris; it is the last place where they will look for me.  Besides, now that they think me behind bars, they will not be looking for me at all.  I shall be as safe as the hottest Leaguer in the camp.”

“But in the hotel-”

“Be comforted; I shall not enter the hotel.  There is a limit to my madness.  No; I shall go softly around to a window in the side street under which I have often stood in the old days.  She used to contrive to be in her chamber after supper.”

“But, monsieur, how long is it since you were there last?”

“I think it must be two months.  I had little heart for it after my father—­So, you see, no one will be on the lookout for me to-night.”

“Neither will mademoiselle,” I made my point.

“I hope she may,” he answered.  “She will know I must see her to-night.  And I think she will be at the window.”

The reasoning seemed satisfactory to him.  And I thought one wet blanket in the house was enough.

“Very well, monsieur.  I am ready for anything you propose.”