ecalling all his pride, he followed
M. de Launay, with a face which showed no trace of the terrible emotion
he had experienced. They passed through some ill-lighted corridors,
descended a spiral staircase, and found themselves at the door of a
tower. This door opened out to a yard, surrounded by high walls, which
served as a promenade to those prisoners who were not kept secret. In
this courtyard was standing a carriage with two horses, on one of which
was a postilion, and they saw, shining in the darkness, the cuirasses of
a dozen musketeers. A ray of hope crossed the minds of the two lovers.
Bathilde had asked the regent to change Raoul's death into a perpetual
imprisonment. Perhaps the regent had granted him this favor. The
carriage, ready, doubtless, to conduct him to some State prison, the
musketeers destined to escort them, all gave to the supposition an air
of reality. They raised their eyes to heaven to thank God for this
unexpected happiness. Meanwhile M. de Launay had signed to the carriage
to approach; the postilion had obeyed, the door was opened, and the
governor--with his head uncovered--held his hand to Bathilde, to assist
her into the carriage.

She hesitated an instant, turning uneasily to see that they did not take
Raoul away by the other side; but seeing that he was ready to follow
her, she got in without resistance. An instant afterward Raoul was
sitting by her; the door was closed, and both carriage and escort passed
through the gate, over the drawbridge, and they found themselves outside
of the Bastille.

They threw themselves into each other's arms; there was no longer any
doubt; the regent granted D'Harmental his life, and what was more,
consented not to separate him from Bathilde.

This was what Bathilde and D'Harmental had never dared to hope; this
life of seclusion--a punishment to many--would be to them a paradise of
love--they would be together; and what else had they desired for their
future, even when they were masters of their own fate? A single sad idea
crossed their minds, and both, with the sympathy of hearts who love,
pronounced the name of Buvat.

At this moment the carriage stopped; at such a time everything was, for
the lovers, a subject of fear. They again trembled, lest they should
have given way too much to hope. The door opened--it was the postilion.

"What do you want?" asked D'Harmental.

"I want to know where I am to take you."

"Where you are to take me! Have you no