A sigh of love and gratitude it was; a
sigh also of regret for the bright, happy boy who had been the source alike
of my recent joys and sorrows, and whom methought I was not likely to see
again for many a day, since the peaceful vegetation of his Sicilian home
held little attraction for me, a man of action.
It was on the evening of the last Sunday in May, whilst the bell of the
Jesuits, close by, was tinkling out its summons to vespers, that Montr?sor
burst suddenly into my room with the request that I should get my hat and
cloak and go with him to pay a visit. In reply to my questions--
"Monseigneur's letter to Armand de Canaples," he said, "has borne fruit
already. Come with me and you shall learn how."
He led me past the Bastille and up the Rue des Tournelles to the door of an
unpretentious house, upon which he knocked. We were admitted by an old
woman to whom Montr?sor appeared to be known, for, after exchanging a word
or two with her, he himself led the way upstairs and opened the door of a
room for me.
By the melancholy light of a single taper burning upon the table I beheld a
fair-sized room containing a curtained bed.
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