Suddenly he was surprised to find the carriage entering a gateway. A
carriage could not enter the gate at his lodgings! The Swiss hussar
sprang from the box, opened the carriage door, and M. Cambray found
himself confronted by a sergeant with a drawn sword.

"This is not my residence," said the old gentleman.

"Certainly not," replied the sergeant. "This is the Prison of St.
Pélagie."

"What have I to do here? My name is Alfred Cambray."

"You are the very one we have been expecting."

And now it was M. Cambray's turn to laugh merrily.

When M. Cambray's pockets had been searched, and everything suspicious
confiscated, he was conducted to a room in the second story, in which he
was securely locked. He had plenty of time to look about his new
lodgings.

Apparently the room had been occupied by many an important personage.
The walls were covered with names. Above some of them impromptu verses
had been scribbled; others had perpetuated their profiles; and still
others had drawn caricatures of those who had been the means of lodging
them here. The guillotine also figured among the illustrations.

The new lodger was not specially surprised to find himself a prisoner;
what he could not understand was the connection between the two events.
How came it about that the courteous and sympathetic Marquis de