Then, taking my hat and cloak, I went out on foot to find the sign of the Red Rabbit. I inquired, of course, for the Jacobin priory, for twenty would know that for one who might even be aware of the existence of the tavern. I found my information readily enough, and a little past eight was before the priory, which rose into the clear night grim and dark behind its high, spiked boundary walls. Except where one faint ray of light glimmered through a narrow window, making a pale green streak on the screen of ivy around it, the façade was in total darkness; but I could see little from where I stood, except the upper portion of the building, which was set far back in what appeared to be a large garden—the surrounding wall shutting out all further view. I remained for a moment looking at the vast irregular outline of the priory, here white in the flood of the moonlight, there in deep, almost solid, shadow, and, but for that faint light playing upon the ivy, one might have thought that the black-robed brethren had fled, leaving their home to the bat, the owl, and the spectral things of the night.
The road in which I stood was long and narrow. On one side, almost for its whole length, extended the gray line of the priory wall. On the other hand, a jagged row of irregularly built houses crowded one above the other, their gables sharper, their pentice roofs sloping more steeply than ever in the weird moonlight. Not a soul was to be seen, and the sound of my own footfalls came to me with sullen echoes, as, loosening my sword in its sheath, I proceeded in search of the inn, looking well to the right and left, for if ever a place had “cut-throat” written large over it, this was the spot. At last I saw a lamp burning before me, and coming up to it, became aware that I had reached my destination, for beneath the light swung a white sign-board, with a red rabbit painted thereon. The road, too, came to a dead end here, and before me rose the crenellated city walls, cutting off all further progress; while beyond, no doubt, was the river. I crossed over to the other side and found the little door Richelieu had described, almost where the priory wall joined on to the ramparts of Orleans. Then, having some time to wait ere it struck nine, and as it was useless hanging about the deserted street like a prowling cat, I entered the inn.
The room was comfortable enough; a cheerful fire was burning. There were tables, benches, and chairs, and a couple of lanterns gave sufficient light; but there was not a soul within.
“Strange!” I thought to myself. “Is the place plague-smitten?” Then I called out, and from behind a buffet, where he had been sleeping, a man rose, and said civilly enough:
“Good evening, monsieur! I did not expect you so soon.”
“Diable! You know me!”
The host, for it was he, shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “It is simple; Monsieur de Richelieu said that a friend of his would be here to-night, and I made a guess.”
“A shrewd one, too.” I wondered to myself what Richelieu meant, and if I was the person expected. Then looking around me, I remarked: “Your house does not hum with business, my friend.”
“It hums enough for me. Messieurs of the Carabiniers reserve it entirely for themselves and their friends.”
“What! And you refuse all others?”