'M. de Gomeron, of the Marshal's Guards, with prisoners for the Chatelet; let us pass in the King's name.'
I heard the words and strove to call out, but the gag was too secure. At any rate, I had learned one thing—we were going in the direction of the Chatelet. Who, then, was Babette? I had heard the name once before, on the night that I lay wounded before La Fère, and an inspiration seemed to come on me, and I was certain that the night hag and de Gomeron's Babette were one and the same.
Then we jolted on for about another half-hour—we must have passed the Chatelet by this—when suddenly the litter took a sharp turn to the right, and after going a little way was put to the ground.
'Sacré nom d'un chien!' exclaimed one of my carriers, 'he is heavy as lead.'
'He will be light enough in a week or so,' answered someone else; and then I heard the creaking of hinges, and the litter appeared to be borne within a yard and was left there. After a half-hour or so I was dragged out, and I heard a woman's voice:
'This way, my lambs; the gentleman's room is below—very far below, out of all draughts;' and she laughed, with the same pitiless note in her voice that I had heard once before—and I knew it was the murderess.
Down a winding stair we went, and I remained passive, but mentally counted the steps and the turns. There were eighteen steps and three turns, at each of which there was apparently a door, and then we stopped. There was a jingling of keys, the harsh, grating noise of a bolt being drawn back, and Babette spoke again:
'Monsieur's apartment is ready—'tis the safest room in the Toison d'Or.' Then I was flung in heavily as I was, and the door bolted behind me.