"That may be, but it is a safeguard you cannot afford to despise. Lean on me; you are weaker than I thought."
He supported me across the room, down the stairway, and so to the door of the house, in front of which a carriage was drawn up. The coachman wore Anjou's livery—a device of L'Estang's, since the equipage did not belong to Monseigneur—and the crowd stood around cheering wildly.
L'Estang, fearful lest any of the lawyer's spies should be there, helped me into the carriage quickly, jumped in himself, and told the driver to whip up his horses. The worst of the massacre was over, but the citizens having tasted blood thirsted for more, and, though the hour was so late, they were roaming about in bands shouting for vengeance on the Huguenots.
Our carriage being compelled to proceed slowly, I had ample opportunity to note the traces of the awful tragedy. Every house where a Huguenot had lived was wrecked; in many instances the window-sills were smeared with blood, and dead bodies still lay thick in the streets. I shut my eyes tightly, while my whole body was convulsed by a shudder of horror.
"Monsieur, we are at the gate. Turn your head to the left, so that the officer may not see your face easily. If he asks questions, remember you are Louis Bourdonais of Monseigneur's household."
"Halt! Who goes there?"
My companion looked out. "We are on Monseigneur's private business," he exclaimed. "Here is his pass. Be quick, if you please, we are in a hurry."
The officer took the paper and examined it closely, "Where is Louis Bourdonais?" he asked.
"Here!" I said, bracing myself with an effort.
"I wish Monseigneur knew his own mind!" he grumbled, "my orders were to let no one through!"