A few moments more and they were standing in the dark, narrow street, with the door swung to upon them and the sound of heavy bolts slipping back into their places to bring home, if it were needed, the full savour of release.
Louis drew a long breath, and turning without a word to Gilbert embraced him. The Marquis released himself something hastily, and took off his cloak. “Put this on,” he said hurriedly. “I must tell you that you are now my valet. I have yet to get you out of Paris. There is a suit of clothes in readiness for you at my hotel, to which you must accompany me at once. Meanwhile, it is fortunately dark.” He swung the heavy cloak over Louis’ slim figure. “Not a word now, I beg of you; but follow me as quickly as you can.”
He started to walk rapidly along the Rue du Roi de Sicile, past the prison front, towards the Rue de la Verrerie, and Louis, wrapped in the cloak, followed obediently and still half dazed. At last, at the corner of the Rue de la Verrerie and the Rue Saint Martin, Gilbert hailed a passing fiacre, and they got in.
“Perhaps now I may thank you, or try to,” exclaimed the Vicomte as the vehicle started. “My dear Gilbert, has any one ever relied on you in vain? Though, indeed, I was not relying much on you or on anybody.” He slipped his arm into his cousin’s.
The conflicts through which Château-Foix had passed had clothed his spirit—for the time being, at least—in a sort of exhaustion. He did not return the pressure, but he smiled—a little wearily—and said: “You have small need to thank me. You owe your release to—an enemy.”
Louis appeared to reflect rapidly. “It’s no use—I have too many.”
“It was Madame d’Espaze.”
“The devil!” exclaimed the Vicomte. He seemed genuinely surprised. “I should never have dreamt of such a thing. But you must have asked her?”
“I did.”
Louis was evidently at a loss for an expression of his feelings. “You are amazing, Gilbert!” he said at last. “Did you actually interview her?”