pulled down the blinds, and taking a silk pocket handkerchief from his
pocket, began quietly to fold it lengthwise.

"I must blindfold you, _mon cher_," he remarked simply, as if announcing
the most ordinary fact.

"_Diable!_" cried the Abbe, now becoming a little nervous. "This is very
unpleasant! I believe you are the devil yourself."

"Remember your promise," said Pomerantseff, as he carefully covered his
friend's eyes with the pocket handkerchief, and effectually precluded
the possibility of his seeing anything until he should remove the
bandage. After this nothing was said. The Abbe heard the Prince pull up
the blind, open the window, and tell the coachman to drive faster. He
endeavored to discover when they turned to the right, and when to the
left, but in a few minutes got bewildered and gave it up in despair. At
one time he felt certain they were crossing the river.

"I wish I had not come," he murmured to himself. "Of course the whole
thing is folly, but it is a great trial to the nerves, and I shall
probably be upset for many days."

On they drove; the time seemed interminable to the Abbe.

"Are we near our destination yet?" he inquired at last.

"Not very far off," replied the other, in what seemed to Gerard a most
sepulchral tone of voice. At length, after a drive of perhaps half an
hour, but which seemed to the Abbe double that time, Pomerantseff
murmured in a low tone, and with a profound sigh which sounded almost
like a sob, "Here we are," and at that moment the Abbe felt the carriage
was turning, and heard the horses' hoofs clatter on what he imagined to
be the stones of a courtyard. The carriage stopped. Pomerantseff opened
the door himself, and assisted the blindfolded priest to alight.

"There are five steps," he said as he held the Abbe by the arm. "Take
care."

The Abbe stumbled up the five steps. They had now entered a house, and
Gerard imagined to himself it was probably some old hotel, like the
Hotel Pimodan, where Gautier, Beaudelaire, and others at one time were
wont to assemble to disperse the cares of life in the fumes of opium.
When they had proceeded a few yards, Pomerantseff warned him that they
were about to ascend a staircase, and up many shallow steps they went,
the Abbe regretting every instant more and more that he had allowed his
vulgar curiosity to lead him into an adventure which could be productive
of nothing but ridicule and shattered nerves. When at length they had
rea