Then we consulted about our imminent start, and I told my servant it would be better to send the post-chaise across the Seine.  He agreed with me.  And for me to come to it as if by accident the moment we were ready to join each other on the road.  He agreed to that.  All of our belongings would be put into it by the valet and himself, and when we met we would make a circuit and go by the way of St. Denis.

“We will meet,” I told him, “at eleven o’clock in front of the Tuileries.”

Skenedonk looked at me without moving a muscle.

“I want to see the palace of the Tuileries before I leave France.”

He still gazed at me.

“At any risk, I am going to the Tuileries to-night!”

My Iroquois grunted.  A glow spread all over his copper face and head.  If I had told him I was going to an enemy’s central camp fire to shake a club in the face of the biggest chief, he could not have thought more of my daring or less of my common sense.

“You will never come out.”

“If I don’t, Skenedonk, go without me.”

He passed small heroics unnoticed.

“Why do you do it?”

I couldn’t tell him.  Neither could I leave Paris without doing it.  I assured him many carriages would be there, near the entrance, which was called, I believed, the pavilion of Flora; and by showing boldness we might start from that spot as well as from any other.  He abetted the reckless devil in me, and the outcome was that I crossed the Seine bridge by myself about ten o’clock; remembering my escape from Ste. Pelagie; remembering I should never see the gargoyles on Notre Dame any more, or the golden dome of the Invalides, or hear the night hum of Paris, whether I succeeded or not.  For if I succeeded I should be away toward the coast by morning; and if I did not succeed, I should be somewhere under arrest.

I can see the boy in white court dress, with no hint of the traveler about him, who stepped jauntily out of a carriage and added himself to groups entering the Tuileries.  The white court dress was armor which he put on to serve him in the dangerous attempt to look once more on a woman’s face.  He mounted with a strut toward the guardians of the imperial court, not knowing how he might be challenged; and fortune was with him.

“Lazarre!” exclaimed Count de Chaumont, hurrying behind to take my elbow.  “I want you to help me!”

Remembering with sudden remorse Annabel’s escape and our wicked dinner, I halted eager to do him service.  He was perhaps used to Annabel’s escapes, for a very different annoyance puckered his forehead as he drew me aside within the entrance.

“Have you heard the Marquis de Ferrier is alive?”

I told him I had heard it.

“Damned old fox!  He lay in hiding until the estates were recovered.  Then out he creeps to enjoy them!”

I pressed the count’s hand.  We were one in disapproval.