"The Rue Charles Martel. That is it."
"Bon!" said the coachman, he having caught the words--"bon! Rue Charles Martel," and as once more Bluet exchanged farewells with them, he lashed his horse and drove off, while De Chevagny cast one last look on the Bastille and shuddered.
"Forty-five years," he murmured, "forty-five years. A young man when I entered there, an old man now--worn out and near his end."
"Nay, nay," said Bertie, "do not think so. Remember, you may find many alive who are still dear to you. Let us pray so at least."
But the marquis, burying his head in the collar of his cloak, spoke no more, though Bertie, regarding him from time to time, saw that he was gazing out and observing the places they passed by; and as they traversed the Pont Neuf, he observed a brighter look in his face than he had hitherto seen. "This, at least, has not changed," he muttered. "It is the same as when I was young--as when I passed over it to go to the Bastille. Forty-five years ago!--forty-five years ago!"
Presently--for it was no great distance from the Quartier St. Antoine to that of St. Germain--the hackney coach arrived at the end of the Rue Charles Martel; a long, sad-looking street, having high walls all along it into which were set great wooden gates, and behind which were large courtyards belonging to the various mansions or hotels of the nobility. Yet, as they entered this street and observed a large, modern, and very gaunt-looking house, De Chevagny seemed more bewildered than ever, and raised his finger to his forehead as though confused.
"I--I--do not understand," he said. "Has the man mistaken the way? Bellancourt's house stood here--years ago--when I was a lad. I have played in the gardens often--oh, so often, with his children! It was an old, old house, built in the days of Henri of Navarre. Where is it? That is not it."
"This is a new building," replied Bertie; "is it not possible the present owner may have removed the old one to make way for this?"
"Yes, yes," De Chevagny whispered--"yes, it is forty-five years ago. I should have remembered. Forty-five years ago. And sixty since I played under the cedars in the garden. My God!"
The hackney carriage rolled along slowly, for in this old-fashioned street the road, like so many in Paris in those days, was far from good, and a slight thaw had now set in which rendered it particularly heavy. Then, looking out, the marquis pointed to an antique mansion the roofs of which could be seen behind the walls.