Still dreaming he turned into Rue Saint-Martin, and stopped before a handsome house, over the door of which were carved the arms of the Cardinal of Ferrara. He knocked three times.
"Who's there?" demanded a fresh, resonant young voice from within, after an interval of a few seconds.
"I, Dame Catherine," replied the unknown.
"Who are you?"
"Ascanio."
"Ah! at last!"
The door opened, and Ascanio entered.
A charming girl of some eighteen to twenty years, rather dark, rather small, very quick of movement, and admirably well shaped withal, welcomed him with transports of joy.
"Here's the deserter! here he is!" she cried, and ran, or rather bounded on before, to announce him, extinguishing the lamp she carried, and leaving open the street door, which Ascanio, less giddy-pated than she, was careful to secure.
The young man, although Dame Catherine's precipitation left him in darkness, walked with assured step across a courtyard of considerable size, in which every tile was surrounded by a border of rank weeds, the whole dominated by a sombre mass of tall buildings of somewhat severe aspect. It was the frowning and humid dwelling-place of a cardinal, although its master had not for a long time dwelt therein.