She turned swiftly, as if startled, and I turned, and we looked at the priest.  I thought we understood one another.  “There is,” she answered softly, “and I would save him from that danger; but he will only be safe, as I happen to know, here!  Here, you understand!  He must be brought here before daybreak, M. de Caylus.  He must!  He must!” she exclaimed, her beautiful features hardening with the earnestness of her feelings.  “And the Coadjutor cannot go.  I cannot go.  There is only one man who can save him, and that is yourself.  There is, above all, not a moment to be lost.”

My thoughts were in a whirl.  Even as she spoke she began to walk back the way we had come, her hand on my arm; and I, doubtful, and in a confused way unwilling, went with her.  I did not clearly understand the position.  I would have wished to go in and confer with Marie and Croisette; but the juncture had occurred so quickly, and it might be that time was as valuable as she said, and—­well, it was hard for me, a lad, to refuse her anything when she looked at me with appeal in her eyes.  I did manage to stammer, “But I do not know Paris.  I could not find my way, I am afraid, and it is night, Madame.”

She released my arm and stopped.  “Night!” she cried, with a scornful ring in her voice.  “Night!  I thought you were a man, not a boy!  You are afraid!”

“Afraid,” I said hotly; “we Cayluses are never afraid.”

“Then I can tell you the way, if that be your only difficulty.  We turn here.  Now, come in with me a moment,” she continued, “and I will give you something you will need—­and your directions.”

She had stopped at the door of a tall, narrow house, standing between larger ones in a street which appeared to me to be more airy and important than any I had yet seen.  As she spoke, she rang the bell once, twice, thrice.  The silvery tinkle had scarcely died away the third time before the door opened silently; I saw no one, but she drew me into a narrow hall or passage.  A taper in an embossed holder was burning on a chest.  She took it up, and telling me to follow her led the way lightly up the stairs, and into a room, half-parlour, half-bedroom—­such a room as I had never seen before.  It was richly hung from ceiling to floor with blue silk, and lighted by the soft rays of lamps shaded by Venetian globes of delicate hues.  The scent of cedar wood was in the air, and on the hearth in a velvet tray were some tiny puppies.  A dainty disorder reigned everywhere.  On one table a jewel-case stood open, on another lay some lace garments, two or three masks and a fan.  A gemmed riding-whip and a silver-hilted poniard hung on the same peg.  And, strangest of all, huddled away behind the door, I espied a plain, black-sheathed sword, and a man’s gauntlets.

She did not wait a moment, but went at once to the jewel-case.  She took from it a gold ring—­a heavy seal ring.  She held this out to me in the most matter-of-fact way—­scarcely turning, in fact.  “Put it on your finger,” she said hurriedly.  “If you are stopped by soldiers, or if they will not give you a boat to cross the river, say boldly that you are on the king’s service.  Call for the officer and show that ring.  Play the man.  Bid him stop you at his peril!”