THE MARQUIS GOES HOME.
The turnkey had provided a fiacre for them, and into this they stepped from the outside of the great gate, while Bluet; looking as sad as though he were parting for ever from his dearest friends, asked where the man should be instructed to drive them to? Strange to say, neither had given any thought to this matter, though, had Bertie been alone, no consideration would have been necessary on the subject. His mother's house would have been his destination; for, although often and often in his misery he had mused on whether she was still alive, and on whether she would ever fold him in her arms again, nothing would have kept him from going straight to Passy and at once resolving his doubts.
But now, with De Chevagny by his side--a poor old man cast back into an unknown world after nearly half a century's exclusion from it--he could not leave him; he must be his first consideration.
"Dear friend," he said, while still Bluet stood by the coach door, "have you thought of where we shall proceed to? Will you go to your own home first, or come to mine--if--if--God! if I have any left there. At least we will not part--or not now, not now."
The poor, old marquis wrapped the dark blue cloak they had provided him with around him as the other spoke, for the December morning, although bright and sunny, was cold and crisp, then he said, "Home! to my home? What home have I?"
"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed Bluet, consoling to the last, "sans doute, a beautiful home. Monsieur must well remember--even I, a prison watch-dog, have heard of it--the Hôtel de Chevagny. Monsieur will doubtless go there. And, parbleu! when I have a day's release from my labours, I shall make a little visit to the marquis. He will be glad to see his old friend and servant, Bluet N'est ce pas?"
"Yes," the marquis whispered, dazed, as it seemed to the others, by his freedom--"yes, I shall always be glad to see you, Bluet. Let us go--let us go," and he held out his hand to the turnkey, as did Bertie.
"Hôtel de Chevagny," said Bluet to the driver; "you know it without doubt. Away with you to the house of the noble marquis!"
"De Chevagny!" said the man from his box--"De Chevagny! No, I know it not. What is the quarter?"
"St. Germain, naturally. Monsieur," looking in again at the window, "the name of the street--of the street, monsieur?" he repeated, seeing that the marquis appeared to scarcely understand him. But a moment later he muttered: