'The matter is ended, M.de Berault.

Be thankful.' In a moment I was outside the door, my head in a whirl, my heart divided between gratitude and resentment.

I would fain have stood to consider my position; but I had no time.

Obeying a gesture, I followed my guide along several passages, and everywhere found the same silence, the same monastic stillness.

At length, while I was dolefully considering whether the Bastille or the Chatelet would be my fate, he stopped at a door, thrust the letter into my hands, and lifting the latch, signed to me to enter.
I went in in amazement, and stopped in confusion.