etition of the day of the
Barricades--that we halted at a little inn a mile short of the gate
and broke up our company. I parted from my Norman friend with mutual
expressions of esteem, and from my own men, whom I had paid off in the
morning, complimenting each of them with a handsome present, with a
feeling of relief equally sincere. I hoped--but the hope was not fated
to be gratified--that I might never see the knaves again.

It wanted less than an hour of sunset when I rode up to the gate, a few
paces in front of mademoiselle and her woman; as if I had really been
the intendant for whom the horse-dealer had mistaken me. We found the
guardhouse lined with soldiers, who scanned us very narrowly as we
approached, and whose stern features and ordered weapons showed that
they were not there for mere effect. The fact, however, that we came
from Tours, a city still in the king's hands, served to allay suspicion,
and we passed without accident.

Once in the streets, and riding in single file between the houses,
to the windows of which the townsfolk seemed to be attracted by the
slightest commotion, so full of terror was the air, I experienced a
moment of huge relief. This was Blois--Blois at last. We were within a
few score yards of the Bleeding Heart. In a few minutes I should receive
a quittance, and be free to think only of myself.

Nor was my pleasure much lessened by the fact that I was so soon to
part from Mademoiselle de la Vire. Frankly, I was far from liking her.
Exposure to the air of a court had spoiled, it seemed to me, whatever
graces of disposition the young lady had ever possessed. She still
maintained, and had maintained throughout the journey, the cold and
suspicious attitude assumed at starting; nor had she ever expressed
the least solicitude on my behalf, or the slightest sense that we were
incurring danger in her service. She had not scrupled constantly to
prefer her whims to the common advantage, and even safety; while her
sense of self-importance had come to be so great, that she seemed to
hold herself exempt from the duty of thanking any human creature. I
could not deny that she was beautiful--indeed, I often thought, when
watching her, of the day when I had seen her in the King of Navarre's
antechamber in all the glory of her charms. But I felt none the less
that I could turn my back on her--leaving her in safety--without regret;
and be thankful that her path would never again cross mine.

With su