For a considerable period the coach rolled along without a word being exchanged between the prisoner and his guard.
The Count was thinking, the exempt sleeping, or, to speak more correctly, pretending to sleep.
In the month of March the nights are beginning to shorten; daylight soon appeared, and broad white stripes were beginning to cross the sky.
The Count, who up to this moment had remained motionless, gave a slight start.
"Are you suffering, my lord?" the exempt inquired. This question was addressed to him with an intonation so different from that hitherto employed by the man who had made him prisoner; there was in the sound of his voice an accent so really gentle and sympathizing, that the Count involuntarily started, and took a fixed look at his singular companion: but so far as he could see by the faint light of coming dawn, the man in front of him still had the same crafty face and the same ironical smile stereotyped on his lips. The Count found himself in error, and throwing himself back, merely uttered one word, "No," in a tone intended to break off any attempt at conversation between his guardian and himself.
But the former was probably in a humour for talking, for he would not be checked; and pretending not to remark the manner in which his advances had been received, he continued—
"The nights are still chill, the breeze enters this coach on all sides, and I feared lest the cold had struck you."
"I am habituated to suffer heat and cold," the Count answered; "besides, it is probable that if I have not yet made my apprenticeship, I am about to undergo one which will accustom me to endure everything without complaining."
"Who knows, my lord?" the exempt said, with a shake of the head.
"What?" the other objected, "Am I not condemned to a lengthened captivity in a fortress?"
"Yes, according to the terms of the order, which it is my duty to carry out."
There was a momentary silence. The Count gazed absently at the country which the first beams of day were beginning to illumine. At length he turned to the exempt.
"May I ask whither you are taking me?" he said.
"I see no objection to your doing so."
"And you will answer my question?"
"Why not? There is nothing to prevent it."
"Then we are going?"
"To the isles of St. Marguerite, my lord."
The Count trembled inwardly. The islands of Lerins, or Sainte Marguerite, enjoyed at that time, even, a reputation almost as terrible as the one they acquired at a later date, when they served as a prison to the mysterious iron mask, whom it was forbidden to take even a glance at under penalty of death.
The exempt looked at him fixedly without speaking.
It was the Count who again resumed the conversation.
"Where are we now?" he asked.
The exempt bent out of the window, and then resumed his seat.
"We are just arriving at Corbeil, where we shall change horses."
"Ah!" said the Count.
"If you wish to rest, I can give orders for an hour's stay. Perhaps you feel a want of some refreshment?"
This singular man was gradually acquiring in the Count's eyes all the interest of an enigma.
"Very good," he said.
Without replying the exempt let down the window.
"Wideawake!" he shouted.
"What is the matter?" the latter asked.
"Pull up at the Golden Lion."
"All right."
Ten minutes later the coach halted in the Rue St. Spire, in front of a door over which creaked a sign representing an enormous gilt cat, with one of its paws on a ball. They had arrived.
The exempt got out, followed by the Count, and both entered the inn: one portion of the escort remained in the saddle in the street, while the others dismounted and installed themselves in the common room.
The Count had mechanically followed the exempt, and on reaching the room, seated himself in a chair by the fire, in a first floor decently furnished room. He was too busy with his own thoughts to attach any great attention to what was going on around him.
When the landlord had left them alone, the exempt bolted the door inside, and then placed himself in front of his prisoner.
"Now," he said, "let us speak frankly, my lord."
The latter, astonished at this sudden address, quickly raised his head.
"We have no time to lose in coming to an understanding, sir; so please to listen without interrupting me," the exempt continued. "I am François Bouillot, the younger brother of your foster father. Do you recognise me?"
"No," the Count replied, after examining him attentively for a moment.
"That does not surprise me, for you were only eight years old the last time I had the honor of seeing you at Barmont Castle: but that is of no consequence; I am devoted to you, and wish to save you."
"What assures me that you are really François Bouillot, the brother of my foster father, and that you are not attempting to deceive me?" the Count answered, in a suspicious accent.
The exempt felt in his pocket, pulled out several papers, which he unfolded, and presented them open to the Count.
The latter looked at them mechanically: they consisted of a baptismal certificate, a commission, and several letters proving his identity. The Count handed him the letters back.
"How is it that you should have been the man to arrest me, and arrived so opportunely to aid me?" he asked.
"In a very simple way, my lord: your order of arrest was obtained from the Cardinal Minister by the Dutch Embassy. I was present when M. de Laffemas, a familiar of his Eminence, who is kind to me, left the Palais Cardinal order in hand: I was there, and he chose me. Still, as I was able to decline, I should have done so, had I not seen your name on the paper, and remembered the kindness your family had shown to me and my brother. Taking advantage of the opportunity my profession of exempt offered me, I resolved to repay you what your friends have done for mine, by attempting to save you."
"That does not seem to me very easy, my poor friend."
"More so than you may fancy, my lord: I will leave here one-half our escort, and then only ten will remain with us."
"Hum! That is a very decent number," the Count replied, involuntarily interested.
"They would be too many if there were not among the ten men seven of whom I am certain, which reduces the number of those we have to fear to three. I have been running after you for a long time, my lord," he added, with a laugh, "and all my precautions are taken: through some excuse, easy to be found, we will pass through Toulon, and on arriving there, we will stop for an hour or two at a hostelry I know. You will disguise yourself as a mendicant monk, and leave the inn unnoticed. I will take care to get rid of the guards I am not certain of. You will proceed to the port furnished with papers I will hand you; you will go on board a charming chasse-marée, called the Seamew, which I have freighted on your account, and which is waiting for you. The master will recognise you by a password I will tell you, and you will be at liberty to go whither-soever you please. Is not this plan extremely simple, my lord?" he asked, rubbing his hands joyously, "And have I not foreseen everything?"
"No, my friend," the Count answered with emotion, as he offered him his hand; "there is one more thing you have not foreseen."
"What is that, my lord?" he asked, in surprise.
"That I do not wish to fly," the young