"Ah," cried Monsieur, "then let us go." But M. Étienne laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.
"Not you. I. They will kill you in the Halles just as cheerfully as in the Quartier Marais. This is my affair."
He looked at Monsieur with kindling eyes, seeing his chance to prove his devotion. The duke yielded to his eagerness.
"But," M. Étienne added generously, "you may have the honour of paying the piper."
"I give you carte blanche, my son. Étienne, if you put that packet into my hand, it is more than if you brought the sceptre of France."
"Then go practise, Monsieur, at feeling more than king."
He embraced his father, and we turned off down the street.
The sun was well up by this time, and the city rousing to the labours of the day. Half was I glad of the lateness of the hour, for we ran no risk now of cutthroats; and half was I sorry, for it behooves not a man supposed to be in the Bastille to show himself too liberally to the broad eye of the streets. Every time—and it was often—that we approached a person who to my nervous imagination looked official, I shook in my shoes. The way seemed fairly to bristle with soldiers, officers, judges; for aught I knew, members of the Sixteen, Governor Belin himself. It was a great surprise to me when at length we arrived without let or hindrance before the door of a mean little drinking-place, our goal.
We went in, and M. Étienne ordered wine, much to my satisfaction. My stomach was beginning to remind me that I had given it nothing for twelve hours or so, while I had worked my legs hard.
"Does M. Bernet lodge with you?" my master asked of the landlord. We were his only patrons at the moment.