"Say what they wish, monsieur! Anything to escape the torture! I have been in the chamber once, and it was horrible for a strong man even to look on. And they are sure to get what they want in the end."
"At all events I will bear up as long as I can!"
"It is useless, monsieur, useless, I assure you," said he, as I finished dressing.
We left the room, and, descending the stairway, found the soldiers drawn up at the bottom.
"Albert de Lalande!" exclaimed their officer, and the next minute I was walking in the midst of my escort to the court, where a carriage stood in waiting.
"Enter, monsieur," said the officer, who himself followed, while the troopers mounted their horses.
I leaned my head against the back of the coach in a state of both wonder and relief. Whatever else happened it seemed that I was not to be taken to the torture chamber. The night was dark, but I could tell that we were leaving the Bastille. Where were we going? I addressed myself to the officer, but received only a curt "Silence!" in reply.
Did they intend to execute me without further trial? It might be so—more than one prisoner had been hurried from the Bastille in the darkness for that purpose. Might was right in those days, and justice stood a poor chance of getting itself heard.
I could not discover in what direction we drove, but the journey was long and apparently roundabout, perhaps in order to avoid attention. The officer sat rigidly upright, with his sword drawn, keeping keen watch and ward as if I had been a most desperate criminal. There was, however, small chance of escape, even if I could overpower my guard. The soldiers rode on each side of the coach, and I should have been cut down instantly.
At last the carriage stopped, the officer opened the door and ordered me to descend. We had halted in front of a large building, which at first I failed to recognise. Several armed men stood on the top-most step.