"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.