AT ODDS
WITH THE REGENT

RICHELIEU THREW HIMSELF AT HER FEET
AND CAUGHT HER HAND

Page 335

AT ODDS
WITH
THE REGENT

A STORY OF THE CELLAMARE
CONSPIRACY

BY
BURTON EGBERT STEVENSON

WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY
ANNA WHELAN BETTS

PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1901

COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

Electrotyped and Printed by
J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U.S.A.

TO

E. B. S.

WHO HAS JOURNEYED
WITH ME SO MANY
TIMES TO THE LAND
OF MAKE-BELIEVE

CONTENTS

CHAPTER |  | PAGE
I. | An Encounter with Cartouche | 9
II. | The Salon of Madame du Maine | 22
III. | A Little Lesson in Politics | 34
IV. | A Duel at Mid-day | 50
V. | A Desperate Venture | 65
VI. | A Surprise for Maison-Rouge | 83
VII. | At the Dryad Fountain | 98
VIII. | An Audience with the Regent | 122
IX. | The Conserve Closet | 140
X. | The Regent Scores a Point | 154
XI. | The House in the Rue Villedot | 167
XII. | A Conference with Cellamare | 181
XIII. | At the Théâtre-Français | 199
XIV. | The Game of Prisoner’s Chase | 220
XV. | Richelieu stands His Ground | 234
XVI. | A Day of Fruitless Effort | 249
XVII. | The Regent shows His Hand | 263
XVIII. | A Ride through the Night | 279
XIX. | D’Ancenis tells the Story | 294
XX. | The Secret Staircase | 312
XXI. | Where Honor wins | 327
XXII. | At the Palais Royal | 341
XXIII. | The Regent’s Gratitude | 355
| A Last Word | 364

AT ODDS
WITH THE REGENT

CHAPTER I
AN ENCOUNTER WITH CARTOUCHE

Night had already come as I drew my cloak more closely about me and stepped forth into the street. I had lingered long over my meal, as a man will who has been alone all the day and sees little chance of companionship before him. For in all the city I knew no one, and there seemed small prospect of the night bringing any enjoyment with it. I turned to the left, away from that dingy house in the Rue Bailleul, which was the only home I had thus far found in Paris, determined to forget, for a time at least, its narrow entrance leading to the dirty interior court, where a thousand odors struggled ceaselessly for mastery; the dark staircase mounting steeply upward, and the close little room, which a single week’s occupancy had sufficed to render loathsome to me. Ah! it was different from the wide, sweet valley of the Loire.

At the outset of my career in Paris I had been confronted by a problem which demanded immediate solution. I might lodge well and dress poorly, or I might dress well and lodge poorly, but I had not money enough to do both well. After mature deliberation, I had chosen the latter course and expended my money upon my wardrobe, reasoning that all the world would notice my attire, while no one would penetrate to my lodging. My neighbors in the Rue Bailleul had not yet recovered from the astonishment with which my advent had filled them, and still gazed wonderingly and suspiciously after me whenever I chanced to pass.

So I strode through the night away from that shabby garret, and as I went I thought somewhat bitterly of the high hopes I had brought with me to the city a week before,—hopes of adventure and glory, after the fashion, doubtless, of every youth who came to Paris from the provinces. But a week had passed without adventure, and as for glory, it seemed farther away than ever. In faith, those same hopes were about my only possession, a fact brought painfully to my attention when I had opened my purse ten minutes since to pay my score, and something must needs happen soon or—well, I had seen a man taken from the Seine the day before and his face seemed peaceful. At least, I would never go back to the narrow life which I had always hated.

A splash into a pool of mud brought me out of my thoughts. I stopped and looked about me, but did not recognize the street, which seemed a very squalid one. The dilapidated wooden buildings with their plastered fronts tottered together over my head. A putrid stream filled the central gutter, giving forth an odor which reminded me forcibly of the court below my window. I started to retrace my steps and return to a more inviting quarter of the city, when a hand was laid suddenly upon my shoulder.

“Ah, monsieur,” said a pleasant voice, “you seem to have lost your way.”

“’Tis not a difficult task in Paris,” I replied, and as I did so, threw off the man’s hand and stepped quickly back to have my sword arm free in case of need.

“I should be pleased to conduct monsieur wherever he might wish to go,” continued the voice, the face of whose owner I tried in vain to distinguish.

“A thousand thanks,” I answered. “If monsieur will tell me the shortest way of reaching the Rue St. Denis I need trouble him no further.”

“With pleasure. Take the first street to the right, then onward three blocks, and monsieur is there,” said my strange companion; and then as I turned away, “There is one formality which monsieur has overlooked.”

“And what is that?” I questioned, sharply.

“Monsieur’s purse. No gentleman ever leaves the presence of Cartouche with his purse in his possession.”

“And is this Cartouche?” I asked, more to gain time than for any other reason, for light as my purse was, I could ill afford to part with it, even to the most famous thief in Paris.

“Assuredly,” answered the fellow, and he held out his hand with an air of nonchalance which exasperated me. Cartouche’s fame had travelled far, and he had spoken truth when he said that all men with whom he talked left their purses with him, yet I was in mood for an adventure, and reflected that a man were better dead than penniless.

“I fear that you will have to break your rule in this instance, monsieur,” I said, after a moment’s silence, during which his attitude had lost nothing of its gay assurance. “The contents of my purse are of infinitely greater value to me than they can be to you. Hence I must beg leave to retain it.”

“Does monsieur count the cost?” he asked, quietly.

“Fully,” I answered, and, leaping back a pace, drew my sword and stood on guard. At the same instant he placed a whistle to his lips and blew one shrill blast. I heard the sound of hastening footsteps, and half a dozen blackguards, who had doubtless been concealed near by, were upon me, while Cartouche stood calmly to one side and watched the conflict. The foremost ran on my sword as upon a spit, and as he fell with a single, sobbing cry, I stepped back against the wall, prepared to give the others a warm argument. Yet I knew I must be overpowered in the end by sheer weight of numbers, and it was reputed that Cartouche had only one penalty for resistance. For some minutes I managed to keep the space in front of me clear, running one of the scoundrels through the shoulder before they saw they had a swordsman to deal with and retired to a safer distance. I heard windows near by opening, and looked for assistance from that direction, but in a moment they were closed again. Evidently no one dared interfere with Cartouche.

Then back at me his rascals came, all together, and evidently counting on overwhelming me in the rush, as, indeed, I thought they must do. Another fellow felt the point of my sword in his thigh, but matters were growing desperate, for I had myself been stabbed in the arm and was fast becoming winded. This was hotter work than I had ever done.

“What have we here?” suddenly rang out a new voice above the clash of swords. “An honest gentleman beset by knaves? A moment, monsieur, and I am with you.”

I discerned a dim figure running towards us, a sword flashed in the air, and its owner was at my side against the wall. He saw that I needed time to breathe and made play in front of me, while I stood with my mouth open, gasping like a fish. But it was only for a moment, and I was back in the fray again. That moment’s rest had given me time to see that my companion was a master of fence, and when the need to shield me was past and his blade was free to thrust, he ran one of the thieves through the breast without more ado. This reduced their number to three, and they gave back a little, evidently appalled at our swordsmanship.

“A pistol-shot!” cried one of the rogues to Cartouche. “A pistol-shot! ’Twill settle the business quickly.”

With an indescribable gesture Cartouche drew his pistols from his belt.

“So let it be,” he said. “Your deaths on your own heads, my braves,” and my heart stood still as I heard him pull back the triggers.

“Come!” I cried to my companion; “charge him. We cannot remain here to be shot down like dogs.”

He responded with a merry laugh.

“Why, this is better than the Comédie,” he said, speaking for the first time since he had entered the fray. “It thrills the nerves and makes the heart beat high. But all things must end, and so, M. Cartouche, I think it would be just as well to put up your pistols and call your scoundrels off. You will get no purses here this evening.”

“De Richelieu!” cried Cartouche; and then in a tone of deepest concern, “Believe me, M. le Duc, I did not recognize you in the darkness, nor did I know this gentleman to be a friend of yours, else this would not have happened.”

“Enough, enough,” laughed my companion, as Cartouche’s men slunk back into the gloom. “A man could not recognize his mistress on a night like this. My friend and I bid you adieu,” and sheathing his sword and motioning me to follow, he turned away without once looking back. I admit that for my part I lacked his assurance, and more than once glanced over my shoulder to make certain that I was not about to receive a stab in the back. But my fears were seemingly groundless, for I saw no more of Cartouche or his men.

It was not until we reached a more frequented street that I turned my thoughts to my companion. I glanced at him with no little curiosity, for I knew the young Duc de Richelieu by reputation, as, indeed, did every other gentleman in the kingdom, yes, and all the ladies, too. A grandnephew of the Great Cardinal, he resembled in many ways that intrepid and indomitable man. A fine swordsman, gallant lover, and brave gentleman,—that is what report said of him,—and I could wish no better epitaph upon my gravestone, should I ever merit one. I saw a straight, slight, handsome man of twenty-two or three, with blue eyes and smiling lips. His hat was worn well down over his forehead and his cloak pulled negligently about his chin, as though he knew the need of disguise and yet disdained to use it, which in the end I found to be the case. There was something strangely familiar in the face, but I banished the thought in a moment, for I knew very well that I had never before met the Duc de Richelieu.

We walked for a time in silence, and as I glanced at him again I recalled with amusement the story of his début at Marly, seven or eight years before, when Madame de Maintenon had pronounced him “the dearest doll in the world.” He had found favor with the ladies from the first, and, so the story ran, had made such violent love to the Duchess of Burgundy that he was dismissed from the court and sent home under guard, together with a lettre-de-cachet which had compelled his father to take him to the Bastille, where he had been imprisoned more than a year. The story had been repeated in all four corners of the kingdom, and his reputation was made from that moment. I could not but admit his comeliness, and of his courage I had already sufficient proof. With this man for a friend, I reflected, even a youth from the provinces might go far. My arm was giving me some pain where it had been wounded, but I managed to bind my handkerchief about it under my cloak and determined that it must wait a more convenient season for attention. It was Richelieu who broke the silence.

“’Twas fortunate I had some business in this quarter of the town to-night and chanced to pass this way,” he said, with a light laugh. “Cartouche is an old friend of mine. I did him a service once,—saved him from the wheel, in fact,—and since then he has been kind enough not to trouble me or my friends; a forbearance which they greatly value, and which may account, in part, for my having so many. You perhaps heard him call my name and so know who I am. May I ask whom I had the honor of rescuing?”

“In faith, it was no less than a rescue,” I answered, warmly, “for the rogues had me all but overcome. I am Jean de Brancas, at your service, M. le Duc.”

“Jean de Brancas?” and Richelieu glanced at me with a little air of surprise. “You are from Poitiers?”

“Yes, from Poitiers,” I answered, looking at him with astonishment. “But may I ask how you know that, monsieur?”

“And you are new to Paris, I suppose?” he continued, smiling and disregarding my question.

“I came here but a week ago, monsieur.”

“May I ask for what?” and he smiled yet more broadly. “But I do not need to ask. It was for adventure, was it not? So many youths come here for that; and though most of them find adventures in great number, they are seldom to their liking.”

“That is my case precisely, monsieur,” I said, “with the exception of this evening, which is greatly to my liking.”

“Perhaps I may find you more of the same kind,” and his face darkened grimly. “There are many such, if one but knows where to look for them. May I ask concerning your family, monsieur?”

“My father died a week before I started for Paris,” I answered, simply. “My mother had preceded him to the grave by two years. I had no brothers nor sisters.”

“Ah,” he said, not unkindly, “and what heritage did your father leave you?”

“An honorable name, his sword and some skill in wielding it, monsieur,” I answered, proudly.

“Heritage enough for any gentleman of spirit,” cried the duke, heartily. “In truth, M. de Brancas, I think we shall be friends.”

“My heritage is at your service, monsieur,” I said. “I could ask no better employment for it.”

“’Tis done,” and Richelieu laughed gayly. “Here, strike hands upon it. Henceforth M. de Brancas is the friend of Richelieu. He will use his heritage in Richelieu’s service. And in return Richelieu will see that M. de Brancas has many chances to use this heritage and to make good returns upon it. Is it agreed?”

“With all my heart!” I cried, and we paused to clasp hands, to the infinite astonishment of the passers-by.

We had traversed a number of streets as we had talked, whose names I did not know, but I saw that we were entering a better quarter of the town. A moment later, we came out in front of a long row of stately buildings which I knew to be the Tuileries. At one of the pavilions, which seemed more brilliantly lighted than the others, the duke entered, and, as I hesitated, bade me enter with him.

“There is no need to postpone your appearance upon the future scene of your adventures,” he said, as we crossed the wide vestibule, the lackeys on either side bowing before him. “Besides, we will tarry but a moment. We are both somewhat travel-stained, ’tis true, but that will count rather in our favor than against us, for men of action have come into fashion with the need for them, and one good swordsman is valued more highly than a dozen poets.”

My eyes caught the sumptuous details of the place as we ascended the broad staircase, where many people were hurrying up and down, all apparently upon some business. But none of them was too hurried to bow to my companion as to a person of importance and to glance curiously at me.

“And what is this place we are about to enter?” I asked, as we paused at the stair-head.

“It is the salon of Madame du Maine,” said Richelieu, and in another moment we had entered the brilliant room.

CHAPTER II
THE SALON OF MADAME DU MAINE

It was with no little interest that I looked about me, for the salon of the Duchess du Maine was one of the most famous in France. My first impression was one of disappointment, for the scene was less striking than I had thought to find it. Groups of people were scattered here and there down the long room, and at the farther end a little court was gathered about a lady whom I did not doubt was the duchess herself. There were few other women present, a circumstance which greatly astonished me, and the men had a singular diversity of dress and manner, betokening that it was no ordinary motive which had drawn them together from so many ranks of life and so many strata of society. It needed but a glance to tell me that these were not wits and beaux, but, in Richelieu’s words, men of action. Nearly every one looked up as we entered with, as it seemed to me, a vague air of fear, but this vanished instantly when they saw that Richelieu was my companion.

“Ah, Mlle. de Launay,” said the duke to a young lady who hastened to us from the nearest group, “I trust fortune is using us as we could wish?”

“Yes, fortune is with us still, M. le Duc,” she answered, smiling brightly. “Indeed, the justice of our cause seems to have inspired an unaccustomed constancy in that fickle dame, and she has decided to stay with us to the end.”

“I hope it may be so.” And then, turning to me, “Permit me to present my friend M. de Brancas, a young man of stout heart who comes from Poitiers to seek adventure in Paris, and who, I see, has already fallen a victim to your bright eyes.”

“In faith, ’twould take a much stouter heart than mine to resist them,” I protested, bowing over the hand she gave me, “and I wager mine is not the first they have made captive.”

“Oh, but the fickleness of men!” exclaimed the girl, smiling at me not unkindly. “To-day their hearts are broken, to-morrow they are quite healed, I know not by what wondrous surgery. I believed that in the Chevalier de Rey I had at last found a constant man, but even he is failing me, for his affection is decreasing regularly in a geometrical ratio.”

“A geometrical ratio, mademoiselle?” cried Richelieu. “And pray how do you show that?”

“’Tis very easily shown,” and her eyes were sparkling with mischief. “You know it has been the custom of M. de Rey to accompany me home from the salon of Madame de Tencin on such occasions as I have been there recently, and in the course of the journey we are compelled to cross the Place des Victoires. In the first stages of his passion M. de Rey would walk me carefully around the sides of this square in order to make the journey longer, but as his affection gradually cooled he took a more direct course, until, last night, he simply traversed it in the middle. Hence I conclude that his love has diminished in the same proportion which exists between the diagonal of a square and its sides.”

“Quod erat demonstrandum!” cried Richelieu. “I have never heard a geometrical proposition explained more clearly. But come, I have a word to say to madame and must introduce my protégé to her. You will excuse us, mademoiselle?”

I should not have been sorry to remain longer where I was, but I promised myself to seek her again before the evening closed. Richelieu was kept busy bowing to right and left as we traversed the length of the room, but he did not pause, though obviously many would have been grateful for a second’s conversation with him. In a moment we reached the group at the farther end, which separated as we approached and opened a way to the duchess.

“Ah, Richelieu!” she cried, as soon as she perceived him; and holding out her hands to him, “I am glad to see you, and hope you bring good news.”

“I trust you will think it such, madame,” replied Richelieu, and he bent over her hand and kissed it.

A curious gleam illumined the gaze she bent upon him.

“You have, then, decided?” she asked, in a voice which she endeavored vainly to compose.

“I am at madame’s service now and always,” and he bowed again with a certain sternness in his face and without raising his eyes.

The duchess went red, then white, and her eyes were like twin stars. I dimly realized that she had won a great victory. An excited whispering behind me told me that others had understood better than I.

“I thank you, M. le Duc,” she said, when her emotion permitted her to speak. “Believe me, your devotion shall not be forgotten.”

“But I have forgotten something, madame,” cried Richelieu, gayly, as though putting the subject behind him. “This is my friend M. de Brancas, who has offered his sword in my service.”

“And in madame’s, should she ever have need of so feeble an instrument,” I added. I felt rather than saw the questioning glance she shot at Richelieu over my bowed head and the affirmative nod he gave in reply.

“M. de Brancas is welcome,” she answered, graciously, “and his generous offer shall be remembered. But you must excuse me, gentlemen,” she continued, turning to the group, which had withdrawn to a little distance, but which yet could hear every word that passed. “I have much to do and must leave you. M. Chancel, will you kindly tell Mlle. de Launay that I wish her to join me in the course of half an hour?”

I gazed with unfeigned interest after this remarkable woman as she walked away, for that remarkable she was I very well knew. A granddaughter of the Great Condé, she had been compelled by Louis XIV. to marry the Duke du Maine, his eldest son by Madame de Montespan, an alliance which the house of Condé had regarded as a disgrace, but which it was powerless to prevent. This disgrace had been somewhat mitigated in 1714, when the king had issued a decree legitimating the duke and declaring him competent to succeed to the throne in the failure of the legitimate line, a decree which had awakened lively dissatisfaction among the other noble houses, who were jealous of their precedence, and which had been the subject of no little comment even at Poitiers. Madame du Maine had at once taken a position commensurate with this new honor, and her salons at Sceaux and at the Tuileries were known by reputation from the Pyrenees to the Meuse.

I had seen at a glance that she was not beautiful. Her figure was almost infantile in its proportions, and a slightly deformed shoulder destroyed its symmetry. Her mouth was large and her other features irregular, but this was more than counter-balanced by the beauty and brilliancy of her eyes. I, who had seen them blaze under the magic of Richelieu’s words, would certainly never forget them. It was Richelieu’s voice which aroused me from my thoughts.

“I see the people interest you, de Brancas,” he said, “and well they may, for it is seldom indeed that one room contains so many worth attention. That gentleman whom the duchess has just sent on an errand to Mlle. de Launay is Lagrange Chancel, whose philippics have driven so many thorns into the side of the regent. For myself, I confess I deem the sword a better weapon of warfare than the pen, but each has its uses. That man over there in black and with the air of a bourgeois is de Mesmes, president of parliament, through whom we hope to be able to do great things.”

“Great things?” I asked. “I do not understand, monsieur.”

“You will in time,” he answered, smiling. “Till then have patience. Yonder handsome churchman is the Cardinal de Polignac, who affects to be absorbed in a new Latin poem, but who is really interested only in politics, and in whom I have little faith. There is Malesieu, madame’s tutor, who was wont to bore us nearly to death reading the tragedies of Sophocles when the Honey Bees met at Sceaux. There is the Abbé Chaulieu, whose age cannot dim the brightness of his wit nor lessen the lightness of his heart. And there is Saint Aulaire, whose eighty years do not prevent him entertaining a hopeless passion for the duchess, but who knows nothing of politics and cares less, and who, consequently, is no longer in favor.”

“But, monsieur,” I protested, “even I can see that this is no ordinary salon. These are not wits nor poets. They are not disputing. They are not even gossiping. They are talking in undertones. They have an air of I know not what,—of plotting, of intrigue,—some of them even of fear.”

“You have come dangerously near the truth, my friend,” and Richelieu glanced about to see that no one heard. “They do intrigue, they are plotting, and some of them do fear.”

“But what are they plotting? Whom do they fear?” I questioned, determined to get to the bottom of this riddle if I could.

Again Richelieu glanced about him, and at that moment Polignac touched him on the arm.

“May I have a word with you, M. le Duc?” he asked.

“Certainly,” answered Richelieu, though I saw he was not pleased at the interruption. “Excuse me a moment, de Brancas,” and the two stepped to one side, engaged in earnest conversation. I glanced about me, and seeing that Mlle. de Launay was making her adieux preparatory to joining her mistress, hastened to her side.

“You are already famous, M. de Brancas,” she cried, as I approached her. “Richelieu has dropped a word of it. Believe me, it is not every one who cares to cross swords with the rogues of Cartouche, or who values his purse more highly than his head. Perhaps you had some keepsake in yours, monsieur, which made it doubly precious,” she added, mischievously.

“No, mademoiselle,” I answered; “and yet, I was loath to part with it, else I should have had no proper receptacle in which to place that ribbon which you wear in your hair and which you are going to give me presently.”

“Oh, am I?” she exclaimed, as her hand mechanically sought her hair and she looked into my eyes. “Well, take it,” and she handed me the ribbon. “Such audacity deserves reward. No one would for a moment suspect you were from the provinces, M. de Brancas,” she added.

“Indeed, mademoiselle, I forget it myself when you are speaking,” I answered, and she laughed merrily and bade me adieu, while I placed the ribbon in my purse, simulating a passion which I confess I did not feel.

But I watched her pass across the room as I had watched the duchess, for both were unusual women, and the maid’s fame was, if anything, greater than that of the mistress. Mlle. de Launay possessed little beauty, as I had seen for myself, and she was of obscure birth, the daughter of a painter, it was said, of whom no one had ever heard. But the abbess of a convent in Normandy had discovered the child somewhere—beside her drunken father in a bottle-house, most likely—and had taken a liking to her and given her a refuge in the convent. She had received a brilliant education, and oddly enough, had preferred the exact sciences to belles-lettres. Of her predilection for geometry I had already had proof. But the abbess died and she had been forced to leave the convent. Through the influence of friends she had secured the position of femme du chambre to Madame du Maine, which she had been compelled to accept to keep from starving, and it was from that position that she had risen, by sheer force of character, to be one of the brightest lights of the gay court at Sceaux. Every girl in the kingdom knew the story and had resolved to profit by it, but few had the wit to do so. It was again Richelieu who broke in upon my thoughts.

“A remarkable woman, is she not, monsieur?” he asked, following my eyes. “Few have yet measured the height of her talents, and no one has sounded the depth of her heart. But come, let us go. You are to lodge with me to-night, for I have many things to say to you.”

“Nothing would please me more, M. le Duc,” I answered, warmly, thankful for any chance which postponed my return to the Rue Bailleul and delighted at the prospect of entering the Hotel de Richelieu. He led the way towards the door, and as he repassed the people scattered about the room I remarked a new expression on their faces. They turned to look at him as they had done before, and not one failed to return his bow, but their manner was not the same. It seemed to combine respect and contempt, admiration and disapproval. The duke appeared not to notice it, yet he avoided any pretext for stopping, as though he did not wish to enter into a conversation which might easily become disagreeable. It was evident to me, however, that the hidden meaning of the words which he had exchanged with the duchess was known to all the persons in the room, and that they knew not whether to blame or praise. I, also, was to learn their meaning before the night was out.

We paused in the vestibule, Richelieu wrapping his cloak about his face and pulling his hat down over his eyes. He bade me do the same, and in another moment we were in the street. We mingled quickly with the crowd which, even in winter, thronged the gardens of the Tuileries, and turning towards the river, crossed it by the Pont Royal.

CHAPTER III
A LITTLE LESSON IN POLITICS

The Duc de Richelieu at that time occupied a magnificent hotel in the Rue des Saints Pères. The house, which had been pointed out to me as one of the sights of Paris, was in the form of a hollow square,—a form which had become very popular for buildings of this kind,—the open side of the square fronting the street and being closed by a high wall. Just back of the Hotel de Richelieu, on the Quai Malaquest, stood the famous Hotel de Bouillon, and next to it the equally famous Hotel de la Roche Sur Yon, the three together forming one of the most imposing and interesting quarters of the city, and one which I had had little hope of inspecting except from the outside.

Richelieu led the way along the quay at a rapid pace, seemingly absorbed in thought. I, also, had much to occupy my mind. There were two questions which vexed me and to which I could find no answer. How did Richelieu know I was from Poitiers, and what was the purpose of that curious assembly in the salon of Madame du Maine? I was still pondering on these, when we turned into the Rue des Saints Pères and stopped before a wall in which was a small postern.

“We will enter here,” said Richelieu, and he took a key from his belt and opened the gate. We passed through, and he locked the gate carefully behind him.

The garden in which we found ourselves, and which I saw to be the great central court, was dark, and only a suspicion of light glimmered here and there through the closed shutters of the house. Richelieu led the way to a door in the west wing, which he opened as he had the gate, and also locked after we had entered. Then with a gesture commanding caution he passed along a hall and up a narrow stair, unlocked another door, and ushered me into a room where a candle was burning dimly on a table. By its light I could see that the room was of some size and richly furnished, and through an open doorway I caught a faint glimpse of other apartments beyond.

“There!” exclaimed Richelieu, with a sigh of relief, “we are safe,” and he flung his cloak and hat into a corner and dropped into a chair, motioning me to do likewise. “As you doubtless know, it is sometimes desirable to be thought at home when one is really abroad, and that was the case this evening. No one saw me leave, no one saw me enter, hence I was here all the while and could have had no hand in whatever has happened in the mean time. But, man, are you wounded?” he asked, suddenly, observing, as I removed my cloak, the blood-stained handkerchief about my arm.

“Only a scratch, monsieur,” I answered. “A little water and a clean rag will repair the damage.”

He was on his feet in an instant, and in a few minutes the wound was washed and bound up, so that it gave me no further concern, and, indeed, need not again be mentioned.

“There will soon be need of long swords and strong arms such as yours,” observed the duke, settling down again into his chair. “Here, drink this,” and as he spoke he poured out a glass of wine from a bottle which stood on the table at his elbow. “’Twill do you good. I would not have anything happen to impair that arm of yours, for, as I saw to-night, it knows how to wield a sword to some purpose. How time passes!” and he looked at me with an expression of kindly interest. “It seems hardly possible that you can be little Jean de Brancas, of Poitiers.”

He smiled as he saw my eyes widen in questioning amazement.

“Ah, yes, I had forgotten,” he said. “You do not yet know how I guessed you were from Poitiers. I will tell you a little story which may explain it. Some six or seven years ago there was a boy who was in disgrace.” He paused a moment and smiled to himself, as at the memory of some boyish prank. “So it was decided that he should be sent to the Château d’Oleron for a time, to get the sea air and incidentally to think over his sins. He set out from Paris in a great coach, with no companion but his tutor. In order that there might be no scandal the trip was to be made incognito. They had horrible weather, the rain falling incessantly, and by the time they reached Poitiers the Clain was swollen to a torrent. They were told that the river could still be forded a mile below the town, so they drove to the place pointed out to them and the coachman whipped the horses into the water. In a moment, as it seemed to the boy within, the horses were beyond their depth and the coach was lifted from the bottom and swept off down the stream. It seems that they had attempted to ford in the wrong place.”

“Yes, yes,” I murmured, “I begin to understand.”

“Let me finish my story,” and Richelieu stood beside me and placed his hand upon my shoulder. “The driver was so terrified that he dropped the reins. The tutor seemed paralyzed with fright. The boy was struggling vainly to open the door and get out of the carriage, when he heard a cry of encouragement, and looking through the window, he saw another boy, two or three years younger than himself. This boy was on a horse, which he was forcing through the water. In a moment he was at the head of one of the coach horses; he caught its bridle, and turning his own horse across the stream, compelled the others to follow. Almost before those within realized his purpose the horses reached firm ground and pulled the coach out after them upon the other bank.”

I would have spoken, but Richelieu silenced me with a gesture.

“The boy in the carriage opened the door and leaped out,” he continued. “He ran to the other boy and caught his hand.

“‘’Twas bravely done!’ he cried. ‘I know no one else who would have dared it.’

“But the boy on horseback merely smiled.

“‘It was a little thing to do,’ he said, and the other boy noticed that he was plainly dressed.

“‘But you shall be rewarded,’ and he pulled his purse from his pocket.

“The boy on horseback grew very red and drew himself up proudly.

“‘You mistake me, monsieur,’ he said. ‘I do not want your money.’

“The other boy grew red also at that and put back his purse.

“‘At least tell me your name,’ he asked. ‘I shall never forget your name.’

“And the boy on horseback smiled again.

“‘My name is Jean de Brancas,’ he said, and the other boy could see that he was proud of the name. And just then his tutor came and separated them, but as the coach drove away he leaned far out of the window and waved his hand to the other boy.

“‘Good-by, Jean!’ he cried. ‘We shall meet again some day, and then it will be my turn.’”

Richelieu paused for a moment, and I felt that my eyes were wet.

“So you see,” he continued, “I had reason to be pleased this evening when I heard that it was Jean de Brancas to whom I had been of service, and whom I intend to keep by my side. For I was the boy in the coach, and I remember that ride through the river as though it had happened yesterday.”

“And I also remember it, M. le Duc,” I said, “and the boy who sprang from the coach and who thanked me so prettily has been my beau ideal from then until this day. I questioned many people, but no one knew him. I have dreamed of him many times, and in my dreams it was always I who was at his right hand, aiding him to win a thousand battles, even as you aided me to-night.”

“And that is where I would have you,” cried Richelieu, “and where you shall be henceforth.”

We were both more moved than we cared to show, for the memory of that boyish exploit was sweet to both of us, and a little silence followed. It was Richelieu who broke it.

“There are many things afoot in Paris,” he said, in a graver tone, and looking at me keenly. “But before I go further tell me, are you for the regent or against him?”

“I am neither for nor against the regent,” I answered, promptly. “I am for the king.”

“A wise answer,” and Richelieu smiled. “One that commits you to nothing. But come, you may be frank with me. What do you think of the Duke of Orleans?”

“The Duke of Orleans is quite indifferent to me,” I answered, readily enough. “I have heard little about him, and none of that was to his credit.”

“Well spoken!” cried Richelieu, heartily. “I see you will be with us. Come, I will trust you with a secret, but first permit me to give you a little lesson in politics. You say you know little about the regent. Let me tell you something about him.”

Now, I was not quite so ignorant of passing events as Richelieu seemed to think, yet I deemed it wise to keep my council and to hear these things as for the first time.

“Philip, Duke of Orleans,” continued Richelieu, “is not rightfully regent of France. Louis the Great’s will provided explicitly that there should be a council of regency during the king’s minority, in which Orleans should have only one vote. The real power was given to Louis’s son, the Duke du Maine, but he stood idly by and permitted Orleans to take up the regency almost unchallenged.”

“The more fool he,” I ejaculated, involuntarily.

“Right. The more fool he. But it is not for him we are going to fight. At least, not directly. He is busy making a collection of snuffboxes at Sceaux, and does not even know there is anything afoot. It is for the Duchess du Maine. Ah, there is a woman! Not beautiful, perhaps, but charming, and what a spirit! Orleans has not only assumed the regency, he has also deprived the Duke du Maine of his right to succeed to the throne. Again you say, that is his affair. True, but let us not forget the duchess. Do you know what she did when she heard of that decree? She was compelled to give up one of her apartments in the Tuileries in consequence, but before leaving she smashed every article of furniture in the room, and had to be carried away like a wounded general from a battle-field where he had won a great victory. Mlle. de Launay told me it was magnificent. In addition to all this, most of us have some little private quarrel to settle with the regent, and will welcome this opportunity to abase him. Well, what we propose to do is to take the regency away from Philip of Orleans and to give it to Philip of Spain.”

“Philip of Spain!” I cried.

“Yes, Philip of Spain. Who has a better right? He is the king’s uncle, the next in succession to the throne. And what is Orleans? He allows Dubois to manage the state while he spends his time with his mistresses at the back of the Louvre, there,” and Richelieu paused from sheer lack of breath.

“That may be,” I managed to say, “but what chance of success can there be?”

“Every chance,” cried the duke, rising from his chair and pacing excitedly up and down the room. “All Brittany is with us, and will rise to our support so soon as we choose to give the word. Half the nobility of the kingdom, whom Orleans has neglected no opportunity to insult, is with us. Alberoni, Philip’s prime minister, has collected troops. They will soon be at the frontier ready to invade France and depose the monstrous thing that governs it. Cellamare, Spain’s ambassador at Versailles, has all the threads in his fingers and is almost ready to strike. The train is laid and all that awaits is to apply the match. That will soon be done, and you will see Orleans tottering from the throne.”

“But does he not suspect?” I asked.

“Ah, that is the only thing,” and the light suddenly left Richelieu’s face. “Sometimes I think he does, sometimes I believe he does not. It is not Orleans himself I fear. He pays little heed to what is going on. But Dubois and Hérault,—that is another story. They have the police well organized. There are spies everywhere, and once or twice recently I have fancied I was followed, but that may have been for another reason. Indeed, the regent has no cause to love me.”

“And what is your part in this conspiracy, monsieur?” I questioned, for I felt that there was still something left untold.

“Ah, my part,” said Richelieu, his brow clouding still more. “Well, I will tell you, as I this evening told Madame du Maine. My part is to see that my regiment does not resist the Spanish army, but surrenders and opens to it the gates of Bayonne, the city where it is stationed, just at the foot of the Pyrenees.”

“But that is treason!” I cried, astounded at this disclosure.

“Treason to the regent, perhaps,” answered the duke, calmly, “but not to the king.”

So this was the victory the duchess had won! Well, she had reason to be proud of it. And as I sat, too bewildered to say more, there came a tap at the door, and Richelieu arose and opened it.

“Ah, Jacques,” he said, to the man who stood bowing on the threshold, and who permitted none of his astonishment at seeing me to appear in his face, “what is it?”

“A note, M. le Duc, delivered but a moment ago,” and he held out a tiny missive. Richelieu seized it, eagerly scanned the address, and tore it open with a hand trembling with excitement. He read its contents at a glance, and his eyes were dancing with joy as he raised them to mine.

“You may go, Jacques,” he said to the lacquey; “I shall not forget your promptness;” and then turning to me as the door closed, “Do you know what this means, de Brancas? It means success in another affair dearer to my heart than this conspiracy of Cellamare. Ah, the work that I have done to secure this one little note,—the servants I have bribed, the women I have cajoled, the disguises I have assumed! And here at last is victory, for this says, ‘Be at the dryad fountain in the Palais Royal gardens at ten o’clock to-morrow night.’”

“A rendezvous?” I asked.

“Yes, a rendezvous. But you could not guess with whom were you to guess forever. Who do you think will be at the dryad fountain waiting for me at ten o’clock to-morrow evening? Who but Charlotte d’Orleans, Mlle. de Valois!”

“Mlle. de Valois!” I gasped. “The daughter of the regent! Why, man, you must be mad,” and I gazed in astonishment at this youth of twenty-two who while plotting against the father dared make love to the daughter.

“If you but saw her, de Brancas,” cried the duke, “you would say I was far from mad. I fell in love with her the first time her eyes met mine. That was at a ball given a month ago for the Duchess de Lorraine, when the regent was celebrating her visit to Paris. You have never seen such eyes, de Brancas. We rave over Madame du Maine’s eyes,—you have seen them and know how wonderful they are,—but they fade as the stars fade at sunrise when Charlotte d’Orleans appears. No, ’tis not a lover’s rhapsody,” he added, seeing me smile; “there are none in the kingdom to compare with them. Were this not so I should not so readily have fallen victim, for I have gazed into many and many without a quickening of the pulse.”

He stopped to read through the note again, and as he folded it and placed it tenderly in his pocket I saw he was in earnest. Indeed, the eyes must needs be beautiful which could so move the heart of this seasoned courtier.

“But the regent,” I said, at last, “the regent. What thinks he of all this? I had not thought him a friend of yours.”

“A friend of mine!” cried Richelieu. “De Brancas, if there is one person in Paris whom he detests above all others, it is myself.”

“But then,” I began, and stopped. I had no wish to seem too curious.

“But then,” said Richelieu, pausing in his walk up and down the room. “Go on, de Brancas. What would you say?”

“Then he does not know?” I asked. “You have met with obstacles?”

“Obstacles!” and Richelieu smiled at me with triumphant face. “Yes,—such as most men would falter at. Imagine wooing a woman with whom you can never speak,—who is kept from you as from the plague! Ah, there was a problem, and one of the sort I love to solve. Why, de Brancas, if her father suspected that I had in my pocket a note from his daughter, he would have me back in a trice in my old cell at the Bastille.”

He paused a moment and touched the note with trembling fingers.

“No, I could never exchange a word with her,” he went on, at last, “but I made progress, nevertheless. Gold will work many miracles. Every morning she found a note in a bouquet of flowers,—on her writing-desk, on her dressing-table, on her embroidery-frame. Ah, how I cudgelled my poor brain in writing those notes, pleading, passionate, despairing by turns! At every ball, every concert, every fête where she was like to be, there was I, and if I could not use my lips, at least I could use my eyes. She looked at me first indifferently, then curiously, then shyly,—and last night at the Opéra she blushed when her eyes met mine, and I knew the battle won. To-morrow night I can speak to her. Ah, how I shall make her love me!”

Well, he was worth loving. My eyes blur with tears even yet as I see him again standing there, so glad, so straight, so gallant, and think of what came after. If I were a woman, I know I should have loved him heart and soul. Even as a man, ’tis little less than that.

“In affairs of the heart, as in affairs of state, my sword is at the service of M. le Duc,” I said, no little moved, and again we struck hands upon our compact, in which, I could not but think, it was I who must reap the most advantage. For of what service could the sword of an unknown youth of twenty be to Richelieu? And yet, as I was soon to learn, even a humble sword when backed by a loyal heart may be of service to the greatest.

Jacques was called and told to show me my apartment. What a contrast it was to that den under the gutters in the Rue Bailleul! Richelieu declared he would not part with me, and with some reluctance I gave Jacques the address of my former lodging, that he might bring away my wardrobe. That done, I was soon abed, turned to the wall, and slept a sleep infinitely sweetened by this sudden change in my circumstances.

CHAPTER IV
A DUEL AT MID-DAY

I awoke betimes the next morning, but did not immediately arise. In fact, I welcomed the opportunity to thoroughly review my position and decide how best to steer my course. Here, then, was I, Jean de Brancas, poor in everything but spirit, who, the day before, had been tramping the streets of Paris friendless and well-nigh penniless, and who had even thought of the Seine as a last place of refuge. Since then, by the merest good fortune, which I had done little to merit, I had gained the friendship of Richelieu, the man in all the kingdom whom I most admired. I had been given entrance, if not to the society of Sceaux, at least to the Paris salon of Madame du Maine. I had met Mlle. de Launay, copies of whose witty letters had found their way even to Poitiers, where I had read them until I knew them by rote. I had been admitted to the secret of the Cellamare conspiracy, and this, I confess, rather stuck in my throat. Open combat and the bright flash of swords I would have welcomed gladly, but I had small relish for intrigue and conspiracy and the considerations which sometimes make it necessary to stab in the dark. And, in truth, I had little hope that the conspiracy would succeed, for it seemed founded on selfishness, and the French nation would forget its hostility to the regent once a Spanish army was on its soil. Yet it mattered not to me who was regent, Philip of Orleans or Philip of Spain, and I reflected that even if Richelieu fell, he would not fall far. He had shown me kindness and good will, and these I was determined to repay as best I could. At worst, I could lose nothing but my life, and the prize was worth the risk.

It was late when I arose, but Richelieu had not yet appeared, and I descended into the court, attracted by the busy life which I saw there. An army of servants was running hither and thither, grooming and exercising horses, cleaning harness, polishing the gilding on half a dozen coaches, sprinkling clean, white sand along the walks, sweeping and dusting the wide entrance, and doing a hundred other things which attested the care and attention given to every detail of the management of this great house. At one side of the court I was surprised to see standing a coach to which two horses were harnessed. The driver was on the box, and the equipage was apparently ready to take the road at a moment’s notice.

“Does M. le Duc go abroad this morning?” I asked of a man who was standing near.

“I really do not know, monsieur,” he answered, politely.

“For whom, then, is the coach waiting?” and I indicated it with a gesture.

He glanced at me in surprise.

“Monsieur must be new to the hotel,” he said. “Whenever M. le Duc is at home a carriage is kept waiting in the court, in case he might have use for it.”

I turned away with a new understanding of the character and resources of the remarkable man whose guest I was, and returned slowly to the great reception-hall, where Jacques was awaiting me. Richelieu himself appeared soon after, and I was relieved to find that his manner preserved the hearty cordiality of the night before. I had been half afraid—though I would not admit it even to myself—that the morning might in some way bring disillusion with it and send toppling the pretty castles which I had been building in the air. Breakfast was soon served. We lingered over the meal, during which I gave the duke a little history of my family, and noon was striking as we left the house.

“We go to the Café Procope,” said Richelieu. “It is in a new style which is becoming very popular, and I fancy we shall find some one there who can tell us the news of the court.”

We entered the carriage which was in waiting, drove out through the central gate, the army of lacqueys bowing on either side, and across Paris towards the Rue Saint Germain-des-Pres, where the café stood, and which it bade fair to render one of the most fashionable quarters of the city. The café had, as the duke said, inaugurated a new style, and there was only one other in Paris at the time, the Café de la Regence, whose name was sufficient of itself to keep my companion away from it.

A drive of ten minutes brought us to the suburb where the café stood, and the throng of carriages before the door told of the crowd within. A perfect babel greeted us as we entered, for it had become the fashion for each person to do his best to out-talk his neighbors. We found with some difficulty an unoccupied table, and Richelieu motioned me to a seat while he took the one opposite.

“There is no coffee made in Paris which compares with that served here,” he remarked, and as he summoned a waiter I looked about me. The room was large, and was rendered even larger in appearance by the numerous richly-carved mirrors which embellished the walls. Through an open doorway at the back came the click of dice and much loud laughter. Gayly attired parties were continually entering and leaving the private cabinets, and trills of feminine laughter mingled with the harsher voices of the men.

“Ah, de Rey,” cried Richelieu at that moment to a gentleman sitting at the next table, “Mlle. de Launay was telling us a clever story at your expense last night.”

“And what was it, may I ask?” questioned de Rey, a tall, black-moustachioed man, whom I thought ungainly.

“She accuses you of fickleness in your love-affairs,” replied the duke, and he related the geometrical sally.

“What would you have, monsieur?” cried de Rey, as the story was finished, laughing as heartily as any one. “A man never knows to-day whom he will meet to-morrow, and not knowing that, how can he be certain whom he will love?”

While he was speaking three men had entered and taken seats at a neighboring table. They commenced conversing in voices which seemed to me unnecessarily loud, and I could not avoid overhearing them.

“Have you heard,” one of them asked, “of the disposition the regent is to make of his daughter, Mlle. de Valois?”

I glanced at Richelieu and saw that he also had heard. His face was white with anger, and I saw he knew the men and did not doubt that they had come there purposely to insult him.

“Proposals for her hand have been received from the King of Sardinia,” continued the speaker, “and the regent is only too glad to get rid of the fair Charlotte. She seems destined to become even more troublesome than Madame du Berri,” and the speaker laughed, with an insolent note in his voice, and glanced meaningly in our direction. A sudden stillness had fallen upon the crowd.

“By my word,” cried the other, looking full at Richelieu, “’twill be bad news to a certain gentleman whose name begins with R, and who, I have heard, has been dying of love for the Valois this month past.”

The duke was out of his chair in an instant, but I was before him.

“Monsieur will doubtless give me the pleasure of a moment’s conversation outside?” I inquired, courteously.

“And who the devil may you be?” he asked, in an insolent tone.

“Perhaps this will tell you,” I cried, red with anger at the insult, and I struck him fairly in the mouth with my open hand.

He leaped from his chair and drew his sword with a furious gesture, nor did mine linger in its sheath. Tables were overturned, chairs were thrown aside, and our swords had already engaged, when a little fat man, with prodigiously long moustachios, came running up.

“Not in here, messieurs! Not in here, I beg of you!” he cried, wringing his hands. “It would ruin my business should those devils of Hérault ever hear of it.” I remembered that Hérault was lieutenant of police.

“He is right,” I said, dropping my point. “Let us adjourn to the street, monsieur. There, at least, we shall injure no one but ourselves.”

We had already commenced the combat, and I admit that I took my chance in lowering my guard, but I was not prepared for the act of cowardice which followed. For before I could recover myself I felt rather than saw my antagonist thrust at me, and I involuntarily closed my eyes as I waited to feel his sword in my flesh. But at that instant there came a ringing clash of steel on steel, and I opened my eyes to see the scoundrel’s weapon flying over the heads of the spectators.

“Ah, de Gare,” cried Richelieu, for it was he who had disarmed him, “and yet you dare associate with gentlemen! If I gave you your deserts I would run you through where you stand. But I prefer killing you with your sword in your hand, so follow me to the street and we will finish this argument. Stand back, de Brancas,” he continued to me, as I attempted to interfere. “This is my quarrel. It was I whom they insulted.”

The Comte de Gare, foaming with rage, picked up his sword and followed to the street. The sentiment of the crowd was plainly with Richelieu, and a moment later when I looked about for de Gare’s companions they had disappeared. A ring of curious spectators formed around the two men, and their swords were ringing together in an instant. Before a moment passed I saw that de Gare had found his master. He realized it, too, and his face went from red to white as he felt the duke’s iron wrist and saw the implacable purpose in his eyes. Plainly it was only the question of a few moments. The duke was playing with him, parrying almost carelessly his savage thrusts, and advancing his own point nearer and nearer to his heart. The onlookers waited with bated breath for the thrust which they knew would be fatal.

“You shall see, gentlemen,” cried Richelieu, gayly, for his self-possession had returned the instant he felt his adversary’s sword against his own, “the proper way to deal with cowards. This fellow has presumed to be seen in the company of gentlemen, and I am glad that it was reserved for my sword to punish him. Ah, you break!” he cried again, for the other had given back a step. I, who was standing at the duke’s side, saw a kind of ferocity spring to life in de Gare’s eyes, and I noticed that his left hand was no longer behind him, but was concealed in the folds of his doublet. Something, I know not what, made me suspect the man.

“Be on guard, monsieur!” I cried to Richelieu, “he means some treachery,” and even as I spoke he drew forth his hand and threw a poniard full at Richelieu’s heart. At the same instant, comprehending de Gare’s purpose, I pushed Richelieu to one side. I felt a sharp, hot pain in my right shoulder, and knew that the dagger had wounded me. With a terrible cry Richelieu sprang forward, and fairly beating down his guard, plunged his sword to the hilt in his breast. De Gare made a desperate effort to keep his feet, grasped the sword, drew it from the wound, and fell to the street, the blood gushing forth in a torrent. He breathed convulsively once or twice, with the crowd looking down upon him, his eyes glazed, a shudder ran through his body, and he was dead.

“Thus perish all cowards,” said Richelieu. And then, turning to me, “You saved my life, de Brancas. ’Twas a brave act.”

“No more than you have twice done for me, monsieur,” I answered. “I have only half paid my debt.”

“But you are wounded!” he cried, seeing that I held my handkerchief to my shoulder and that it was red with blood. “The dagger struck you, then? Let me see how serious it is,” and he was tearing the doublet away from my shoulder ere I had time to protest.

“’Tis only a flesh wound, monsieur,” I said. “Pray do not trouble about it.”

“Trouble about it, indeed. Come in here with me,” and he dragged rather than led me into the café again. “Come, Maitre Delorme,” he cried to the proprietor, who was still wringing his hands and bewailing the destruction of his glasses, “bring me water and clean linen, and be quick about it. Ah, here is one who will know how to dress the wound,” he added, as a tall, clean-shaven man, dressed severely in black, pushed his way through the crowd. “Upon my word, Levau, you come in the nick of time. I have a patient for you,” and he turned me over to the famous surgeon.

The latter in a moment had examined the wound, with puckered brow, washed it in clean water, spread some cooling lotion upon it, which he took from a case he carried in his pocket, and securely bandaged it. Not till then did he deign to speak.

“A mere nothing,” he said, “for a man who has good blood in his veins, as my friend here has. A little soreness for a week, perhaps, a stiffness for a fortnight, and then only a memory.”

“Indeed, I am wondrous pleased to hear it,” said Richelieu, shaking his hand warmly, and leaving a gold piece in it, I do not doubt. “But what have we here?” and he turned towards the door, whence came a sudden commotion.

“For the king!” cried a voice. “For the king! Make way, messieurs.”

“The regent!” exclaimed some one, and then a strange stillness fell upon the place, save for Richelieu, who hummed one of Lulli’s gay airs.

The crowd parted to right and left, and I saw advancing towards us a large, heavy-set man, with red face and eyes which seemed to run one through.

“Who hath done this?” he cried. “Who hath killed the Comte de Gare, one of my faithful friends?”

“To me belongs the honor, monsieur,” said Richelieu, in a cool voice, but bowing low. “I regret to learn he was a friend of yours, for he was a coward and a villain, and deserved to die by the rope, not by the sword like a gentleman.”

The regent’s face turned from red to purple, and I looked to see him rush upon Richelieu, and half drew my sword. But with an effort he restrained himself, and his next words came in a voice strangely calm, yet infinitely more menacing than any violence could have been.

“Ah, I have the honor of seeing the Duc de Richelieu, have I not? But they tell me there were two men opposed to de Gare.”

“Monsieur,” cried Richelieu, “whoever said that lied. A friend of mine interposed to save me from a treacherous dagger-thrust, which the coward would have given me when he saw himself hard pressed.”

“And where is this friend, may I inquire?” asked the regent, looking about with an ominous light in his eyes.

My hat was sweeping the floor in an instant.

“I have that honor,” I said.

“I do not know you, monsieur,” sneered Orleans, looking me over from head to foot. “I should say, however, that you were from the country, and I warn you that you have fallen into bad company. You would better leave it.”

“I choose my own company, monsieur, and ask no one to do it for me,” I answered, for the insolent look of the man had set my blood on fire. “I desire no better than that I have already had.”

“Then by my faith you shall see more of it!” cried the regent, losing his calmness in an instant. “Here, lieutenant,” he called to an officer near the door, “bring in a squad of guards and arrest these men. I will see if we are to have roistering and murder at mid-day in the streets of Paris.”

“’Tis useless to resist,” said Richelieu to me in a low voice as I drew my sword. “He will not dare use much severity.”

“Your swords, messieurs,” said the lieutenant of police, advancing towards us at the head of a dozen men. Richelieu broke his over his knee and threw it to the floor. I placed my foot on mine and snapped the blade.

“To the Bastille with them!” cried the regent, beside himself with rage. “You shall answer for them with your head, lieutenant, so take care they do not escape.”

The officer simply bowed, but his cheek flushed with anger. We were led to the street, where I saw the regent’s coach standing. As we emerged from the café I caught a glimpse of two faces which seemed familiar, and looking again, I recognized the men who had entered the place with de Gare. I understood then how it happened that the regent had arrived so opportunely. They had doubtless warned him of de Gare’s peril, but too late to save his life.

A moment later we were mounted on two horses, and, surrounded by our body-guard, galloped briskly away towards the Bastille, in which, I reflected, I was like to find much less of comfort than in the palatial Hotel de Richelieu. Yet a man must take the lean with the fat, and I was far from repining.

CHAPTER V
A DESPERATE VENTURE

The troop of guards continued onward at a rapid pace, separating me from Richelieu, so that I had no opportunity of exchanging a word with him. In a few moments the threatening and gloomy walls of the Bastille loomed ahead, towering over the Porte St. Antoine, and we drew up at the outer gate. The lieutenant exchanged a word with the sentry there, and after a moment the gates creaked back and we entered. I looked about me curiously, for this was the first time I had ever seen the interior of the most famous prison in France, though I had spent an entire afternoon looking at it from the other side of the ditch.

We were in a long court, closed in by lofty walls, the prison itself forming one side. We turned to the right, past some houses built against the outer wall, which I decided were stables, and then the word was given to dismount. Half a dozen guards surrounded us, a bell rang somewhere, and in a moment a man in uniform hurried towards us,—a little, dry man, with tight-shut lips, and eyes whose glance was like a poniard-thrust.

“M. de Maison-Rouge,” said the lieutenant, saluting with great respect, “I have here two prisoners, whom the regent confides to your keeping with instructions to guard them well.”

“The instructions were unnecessary, monsieur,” replied the new-comer, shortly. “No one who enters here ever leaves until it is permitted. Who are the prisoners?”

“Ah, M. de Maison-Rouge,” cried Richelieu, gayly, “I trust you have not forgotten me so speedily?”

The lieutenant-governor of the great prison glanced at the speaker quickly, but his face remained impenetrable, and if he experienced any surprise, he certainly did not show it.

“No, I have not forgotten you, M. le Duc,” he said, quietly. “And the other?”

“Is my friend, Jean de Brancas,” answered Richelieu; and added, smilingly, “It is, I believe, the first time he has had the pleasure of meeting you.”

Maison-Rouge glanced at me coldly. I bowed, but I fear my face betrayed the fact that I considered the meeting anything but a pleasure.

“Very well,” he said. “Wait a moment, lieutenant, and I will send you a receipt for the prisoners. Follow me, messieurs,” he added to us, and led the way to one of the buildings against the outer wall, which proved to be his office. A sentry at the door saluted as we passed. A receipt was written and given to him.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Maison-Rouge, as the door closed, “I must be assured that you carry no weapons or means of escape into the Bastille with you. Give me your word of honor to that effect and I will omit the formality of search.”

“That is most courteous, monsieur,” cried Richelieu. “I give you my word of honor gladly.”

“And I also,” I said. “My sword was my only weapon.”

“That is well,” and Maison-Rouge opened the door. “Follow me, then.”

Midway of the court a drawbridge grated down to let us pass and creakingly rose behind us. Turning again to the right, we were conducted along a still narrower court to a second gate, and passing through this, paused before a second drawbridge, which was also lowered to permit our passage. Still another gate was opened and clanged shut after us, and we were in the great interior court. The afternoon sun illumined it as brightly as it was ever illumined, and I perceived two or three melancholy personages walking slowly up and down, each in charge of a sentry, who followed closely with loaded musket and permitted no word to be exchanged. Three lofty towers flanked the court on either side. They were fully a hundred feet in height, as were the walls between them, and the court itself was near a hundred feet long, by perhaps seventy in width. We were led straight on across another drawbridge into a second court, much smaller than the first, and which resembled nothing so much as a gigantic well. As I afterwards found out, it was, indeed, called the well court.

“I trust I may have my old room, monsieur,” observed Richelieu, as we entered this forbidding place, which made my heart sink within me.

“I see nothing against it,” answered Maison-Rouge. “The Tower du Puits is certainly strong enough to hold even the Duc de Richelieu.”

“That has been proved,” laughed the duke, “since it has already held me for more than a year. I had no reason to complain of your hospitality, monsieur.”

The governor smiled grimly, but said nothing. I wondered how my companion could laugh so lightly in this horrible place.

“And you are not even curious to know what brought me here again?” he continued, in the same tone.

“Some act of folly, I do not doubt,” said Maison-Rouge, his face clearing a little. “You will never learn discretion.”

“Ah, but this is far less serious,” cried Richelieu. “Before, I offended the prudery of Madame de Maintenon, who was trying to turn Louis into a monk and the court into a priory. This time I have merely killed one of the regent’s friends. The regent is a man, and will soon forgive.”

“I trust so,” and Maison-Rouge glanced at him with the shadow of a smile. “I have no reason to wish you ill, M. le Duc.” Evidently, the winning good humor of my companion had touched even this enfortressed heart.

There was a tower at either corner of the inner court, and it was towards the one at the right that we were led. A door with double bolts barred the bottom of the staircase. The governor threw them back, opened the door, and motioned us before him. I heard the regular step of a sentry in the corridor above, and we passed him at the first landing. He paused to glance at us inquiringly, and then continued his round. At the third landing, Maison-Rouge stopped before a heavy iron door, threw back the bolts and pulled it open. Another inner door was revealed, similarly bolted. This he also opened and held back.

“Ah, I am familiar with this room,” said Richelieu, smiling as he passed into it. I started to follow him, but Maison-Rouge motioned me back.

“What! you would separate me from my friend?” cried Richelieu.

“I regret that it is necessary, monsieur,” said the governor; “but it is the rule, as you should know. He shall lodge in the calotte above you.”

As he spoke I fancied I caught a flash of triumph in Richelieu’s eye, but he made no sign.

“Good-by, then, my friend,” he said, and turned away towards the double-barred window. The doors were clanged shut, the bolts thrown, and I was motioned to mount to the floor above. I did so with a heavy heart. With Richelieu I had some hope, but without him I felt hope to be fruitless. Presently we paused before another door, double-bolted like that on the floor below. Behind it, also, there was an inner door. It was opened, I entered, and heard the bolts shot into place. As I looked back at it I saw that in both doors, near the top there was a narrow orifice through which the sentry in the hall could inspect the cells as he passed and hear what was going on in them.

The calotte was well named, for it was a skullcap indeed. In the centre there was room to stand upright, but the roof sloped on either hand until at the walls it was scarce two feet from the floor. A bench, a chair, and a rickety stove clamped to the wall comprised the furniture.

I threw myself upon the bench, when a sudden thought brought me to my feet as by a spring. For this was the night upon which Richelieu was to meet Mlle. de Valois. That he should fail to do so would be monstrous. Escape, then, was necessary,—escape, not to-morrow or next week, but at once, to-day, within six or eight hours at the uttermost. I groaned aloud. How to escape from this infernal hole? I sprang to the window and tried the bars. They were cemented fast into the masonry. The strength of the door I already knew, and I ran over in my mind the barred gates and raised drawbridges we must pass before we should be without the walls. I gazed out through the bars at the broad country, bright under the rays of the sun, and cursed the chance that had thrown us here, upon this day of all days. I heard the regular step of the sentry in the corridor, as much a prisoner as ourselves until the watch was changed. It came nearer, paused before my door, and then retreated. All was still.

Suddenly I heard a faint tapping as of some one endeavoring to signal me. I looked around trying to locate the sound. I approached the corner from which it seemed to come. It grew louder. I dropped to my knees and crawled yet nearer the wall.

“De Brancas,” I heard a voice call, seemingly a great way off. “De Brancas, are you there?”

“Yes, yes,” I panted. “But where are you, monsieur?” for I could not believe that a human voice could penetrate these walls of stone.

“In the cell below yours, as you know,” replied the voice. “Do you know we must escape to-night?”

“Yes, yes,” I answered again, still more astonished that I could hear his voice so clearly. “The tryst at the dryad fountain.”

“You are a jewel, de Brancas!” cried the duke. “Yes, we must escape and at once. There is no time to lose.”

“But to escape,” I said, “it is necessary to pass through seven barred gates and across three raised drawbridges. That is no easy thing. Have you a plan, monsieur?”

“A plan? No. But let me come to you and we will find a plan.”

“Let you come to me?” I cried, in amazement. “Gladly, but how?”

I could hear him laughing to himself.

“Did you think that I spent a year of my life here for nothing?” he asked. “The slab at the corner of your cell is loose and can easily be raised.”

I was panting with excitement. So this was how his voice could reach me!

“A moment!” I cried, and my fingers groped for the loosened slab. It was soon found, but how to raise it was a question, for I could get no hold of it. In an instant I had torn the buckle from my shoe and inserted its edge into the crack. I pried the stone up, but a dozen times it slipped back before I could arrest it. Finally I raised it half an inch, grasped the edge with desperate fingers, and with an effort which made my muscles crack tilted it up. I looked into the hole, but could see nothing.

“The slab is out, monsieur,” I called.

“Good,” said Richelieu, and then there was an instant’s pause. “Now,” he went on, at last, “as I raise this other stone do you slide it back out of the way.”

In a moment it was done, and I found myself looking down into his eyes, so near they almost startled me, for he had placed his chair upon his bench and was standing on it.

“The guard will be back,” he said. “Bring your bench to the corner and lie down upon it.”

I did as he directed, and saw that he had jumped down from his chair and was walking carelessly about his cell. Again the sentry reached the door, paused an instant to glance within, and then went on his round.

Richelieu was back upon his chair in an instant.

“Now,” he said, “I can pay you a ten minutes’ visit. I know the routine of this place,” and he held out his hands to me. I reached down, grasped them, and he scrambled lightly up beside me.

I began to think that, after all, escape might not be such a difficult thing. What other secrets of the prison might he not possess?

“’Tis not the first time I have made that trip,” and he laughed as he brushed the dust from his sleeve. “When the king sent me here to repent of that affair at Marly he permitted my tutor to accompany me. But in the evening we were separated, and he was locked up in this cell to spend the night. We were both dying of ennui, and determined to spend the nights together. So with infinite patience he picked away the cement around this slab and the one under it. As you see, they rest on the girders and so remain in place. The guard cannot see into the cells after night falls, so we were not disturbed. It is fortunate the corner is dark,” he added, “and that the cracks of the floor are filled with dirt, else the ruse might have been discovered since I was last here.”

“And now what?” I asked, trembling with impatience.

“Now to escape,” said the duke, and sat down on the bench to consider.

But to escape, and with only our bare hands for tools! What a problem! Yet I was determined that it should be solved. Others had escaped from the Bastille. Why not we?

“Clearly,” I said, after a moment, “we cannot hope to break down the door nor penetrate these walls.”

My companion nodded in gloomy acquiescence.

“There remains, then, only one possible way,” I went on. “That is by the window.”

“But the bars?”

“We must remove one. Luckily they are single, so that one will be enough.”

“It is ninety feet from the ground.”

“We must get a rope.”

“A rope? Yes. But where?”

“I do not know,” I said, but I arose and went to the window. Yes, it was not less than ninety feet from the ground.

“Well,” said Richelieu, at my elbow, “suppose we had a rope. Suppose we had the bar out. What then? Do you not see the court is full of soldiers? We could not hope to escape them. But even if we did, there is the outer wall still to pass,—forty feet high and with a sentry at every twenty paces.”

I saw that what he said was true. To descend into the court would be to enter a nest of hornets. But of a sudden a new thought came to me.

“Well,” I asked, “if one way is impossible, why not try the other?”

“The other?” exclaimed Richelieu. “What other, de Brancas?”

“The roof,” I cried, and I knew I had found the key to the problem. “It is battlemented, is it not?”

“Yes,” and Richelieu looked more and more astonished. “But I do not yet understand, my friend.”

“Wait,” I said. “Let me think a moment,” and I sat down upon the bench, my head between my hands. Richelieu paced feverishly up and down the cell. At last I had it.

“M. le Duc,” I said, as calmly as I could, for my heart was beating madly, “I have a plan. It is not promising, perhaps, but I believe it is the best that offers. I will remove one of the bars of the window. We will secure a rope. I will stand upon the sill without and throw the rope over a merlon of the battlement. We will mount to the roof and after that trust to Providence. There must be some way down, and if there is, we will find it.”

Richelieu’s eyes were blazing.

“But can we do all this?” he asked.

“We must,” I said. “The most difficult thing is the rope. It must be twenty or thirty feet long, and strong enough to bear us. If we had our cloaks——”

“I will get our cloaks,” cried Richelieu. “I will make the rope. Come, I must return. The guard will soon be here. Slip the stones into place after me,” and he dropped lightly into his cell.

I dropped the stones back into place, and heard him pounding at his door. The sentry answered him.

“There is no bedding in this place,” called Richelieu, “and it will be cold to-night. At least I and my friend should have our cloaks. Ask M. de Maison-Rouge if he will not send to my hotel and secure us two good, heavy ones.”

The guard went away, but soon came back again.

“Your request is granted, monsieur,” he said. “You shall have your cloak,” and then he mounted to my door and repeated the message to me.

I had the slabs out again in a moment.

“That provides the rope,” I said, looking down into the duke’s excited face. “Now it is for me to remove the bar. It will make some noise. Do you listen for the sentry and warn me when he approaches.”

Richelieu nodded, and turned away to listen at his door.

I went to the window and examined it bar by bar. None of them showed any sign of weakness, but at one end of the second bar from the bottom there was a little crack in the cement. I must have something to use as a chisel. But what? My eyes fell upon the stove. It was falling to pieces, and I wrenched loose a portion of the side, which would do admirably for a maul. But for a chisel I must have something with a point,—why not one of the clamps which held it to the wall? They had been driven into the cement, how far I could not guess. I chose the one which seemed a little loose, and using the piece of iron for a lever, managed to start it. A second wrench, a third—and I had it out. It was a sorry chisel, but must do, in want of something better. I muffled my handkerchief about the piece of iron in order to deaden the noise as much as possible and attacked the cement about the bar. I saw that I could chip it away a little at a time.

So I toiled on through the afternoon, Richelieu warning me when the sentry approached along the corridor. It was weary work, yet my heart was light, for I had soon made a considerable impression, and knew I should succeed. My arms were aching and my hands were torn and blistered, but as evening came one end of the bar was loose, and I felt that I could pull it out. I stopped work then, told Richelieu of my success, and carefully gathering up the cement which I had loosened, threw it under the floor, and slipped the stones back into place. I drove the clamp back into the wall, replaced the piece of stove, and threw myself upon my bench to rest.

Scarcely had I done so when I heard footsteps approaching. The door opened and a man appeared upon the threshold carrying my supper, and I caught a glimpse of the guard standing in the dark corridor behind him. He placed the food upon the floor, went out again, and returned in a moment with a cloak, which he threw upon the chair, and withdrew without a word, bolting the doors behind him. I caught up the cloak, and saw with satisfaction that it was a strong and heavy one. But before I set to work upon it I turned to the food. A square of bread, a piece of meat, another of cheese, and a bottle of vile wine was all; but I was in no mood to quarrel with it, for I had eaten nothing since morning, and soon devoured it to the last morsel. Then I tore the cloak into broad strips and twisted and knotted them together. At the end of half an hour I had a strong rope, not less than twenty feet in length. A tap on the floor told me that Richelieu had also completed his task, and I sat down to wait for darkness.

It was not long in coming, and so soon as I saw from my window that night had fallen in earnest, I raised the slabs and pulled Richelieu up beside me. Then I dropped the stones back into place, so that, when our escape was discovered, our means of communication might not be too readily disclosed. Richelieu had brought with him the rope which he had made, and I knotted both ends of it to mine, making a great loop. Then I sprang to the window and wrenched out the bar.

“We are ready,” I said, and I felt my arms trembling with excitement.

Richelieu reached out and wrung my hand.

“I will go first,” he said.

“No, no!” I cried, and before he could prevent me I had pushed my body between the bars and was clinging to the sill without.

CHAPTER VI
A SURPRISE FOR MAISON-ROUGE

There was narrow foothold, and my head whirled for an instant as I clung to the bars with one hand and looked down at the flickering torches in the court below and along the outer wall. But the giddiness passed, and I leaned far out and vainly tried to pierce the darkness above me. The wall sloped outward at the height of my head, so that I could not see the top, but I had seen the parapet in daylight from a distance and knew that the merlons were narrow and spiked along the crest. It was over one of these that I must throw my rope, and I drew a deep breath as I nerved myself for the effort. Once, twice, I threw, with a long, outward sweep of the arm, and each time the rope fell back past me. Three, four, five times, but each time it came back without resistance. I paused for breath, and heard Richelieu cursing softly at the window. I leaned far out and threw the sixth time. The rope held. I bore my weight upon it, still clinging to the bars with one hand. It still held. Obviously, what I had hoped for had happened.

And then I paused, while the perspiration started in beads at the roots of my hair. As the wall sloped outward above me, I saw that so soon as I grasped the rope and loosed my hold on the bars of the window I would be swung outward. But there was no time to hesitate, and I feared that if I stopped to think my heart would fail me, so closing my eyes, I grasped the rope and let myself go. In a moment I was dangling like a fly over the abyss. Gripping my teeth, I went up hand over hand to the parapet, straining my wounded shoulder grievously, grasped the top of the battlement, pulled myself over, and fell limp as a rag on the other side. A moment later I heard a scratching against the wall, and Richelieu scrambled over beside me.

“Do not move,” he whispered, crouching under the parapet; “I hear footsteps.”

I also heard them, and saw faintly a sentry approaching with musket on his shoulder.

“’Tis our salvation,” I whispered, for in an instant I saw a way of escape.

“Our salvation?” questioned Richelieu.

“Make no noise, monsieur,” I answered, “and I will show you.”

The sentry was opposite us. A step more and he had passed. In that instant I was upon him, my fingers at his throat. Before he could utter a sound, or, indeed, understand what had happened, I had dragged him down into the shadow. Richelieu caught his gun as it fell, and seizing the rope from the parapet, had bound his feet together in a trice.

“Quick, quick!” I whispered. “Perhaps there is another sentry. This one must not be missed.”

I stripped off the fellow’s coat, while Richelieu stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth. Then we tied his hands, gagged him, and rolled him into the shadow. I threw on his coat, donned his hat, picked up his musket, and continued along his beat. A moment later I saw the form of another sentry approaching through the gloom.

“Montjoy,” he cried, as he neared me.

The old battle-cry of France flashed into my mind in an instant. I can call it nothing less than inspiration.

“St. Denis,” I answered.

“All’s well,” said the man, and passed me.

It was a simple thing to reach out and clutch his windpipe. Richelieu heard the struggle and ran to my assistance. I tore our rope into shorter pieces, and in a moment the fellow was secured.

“Are there any others?” asked the duke.

“I do not know,” I answered. “Wait and I will make the circuit.” I picked up the gun again and started on the round. I completed it without encountering any one. “There are only two sentries,” I said, as I rejoined Richelieu.

“Good,” he answered; “and now what?”

“My plan is to put on the clothes of these men and take their guns. When the guard is changed we will descend, and will perhaps be permitted to go out without question. If any one tries to stop us, we must kill him. At least, we shall be armed.”

“Splendid!” cried Richelieu. “By my soul, de Brancas, you are a man after my own heart.”

“Let us see how long we have to wait,” I said, and loosened the gag in the mouth of our first prisoner. “Tell us, fellow,” I said to him, “how soon are the guards changed?”

“In an hour,” he answered, sullenly.

I replaced the gag, and as I did so a new difficulty struck me.

“We must get rid of these men,” I said. “If the guards who come after us find them, they will give the alarm, and the prison will be aroused in a moment.”

“But we cannot kill them,” cried Richelieu, and I heard the two prisoners breathing heavily.

“No,” I answered; “but we must get rid of them, nevertheless. Wait a moment,” and I made a rapid circuit of the roof. “I have it. The chimneys.”

“The chimneys?”

“Yes; why not? We can lift them over and drop them inside.”

“But they would fall to the bottom.”

“Perhaps not. Let me see,” and I ran to the nearest chimney, drew myself to the top of it, and carefully let myself down within. My feet encountered an obstacle, and I cautiously bore my weight upon it. It seemed quite firm, and I released my hold of the chimney and stooped down to investigate. I found that I was standing upon a heavy iron grating solidly embedded in the masonry. In a moment I understood. It had been placed there to prevent any one crawling up the chimney and perhaps escaping. There was a certain grim humor in the thought that this grating, which had been designed to prevent escape, should be of assistance to us. “Come, this is excellent,” I said, clambering out, and I explained to Richelieu what I had found. “One man in each chimney, well bound and gagged. I warrant you they will not be soon discovered.”

“But they will be smothered!” exclaimed the duke.

“By what?”

“By smoke and heat.”

“Ah, you forget, monsieur,” I said, “how few fires there are in the Bastille, and how small are the few which do exist.”

“True,” murmured Richelieu; and added, “You seem to think of everything, my friend.”

It was the work of only a few moments to strip our prisoners and draw their clothes on over our own. Each had a dagger in his belt, and these also we appropriated. Our hats we dropped down the chimney nearest us.

“Come, my friends,” I said to the two men, who were shivering in the icy wind which swept across the building, “you are soon to be in a warmer place. No, do not fear, we are not going to harm you,—that is, if you keep still. We are going to slip each of you down one of those chimneys, where, about six feet from the top, there is a grating upon which you can stand very comfortably. I promise you, moreover, that if you are quiet and do not struggle we will send a message to the governor in the morning telling him where you are, so that he can release you.”

I saw that the gags were fast and that their hands and feet were securely bound. Then I mounted the chimney and, with the assistance of Richelieu, pulled one of the prisoners to the top and lowered him inside. I felt him shudder as he swung over the inky pit, but his feet soon found the grating, and in a moment he was standing in safety and quite invisible from the roof. The same manœuvre was repeated at the other chimney, I having first assured myself that it was also grated, and Richelieu and I were left alone upon the parapet. All of this had taken time, and we knew the moment of the relief could not be far distant. We picked up the muskets and started to patrol the roof.

“The pass-word,” I said to Richelieu, “is Montjoy and St. Denis.”

“And how under heaven do you know that, my friend?” he asked, in amazement.

“By inspiration,” I answered, and left him to his astonishment. We had made the round scarce half a dozen times when we heard a door unbolted.

“Montjoy,” cried a voice.

“St. Denis,” we answered, from different parts of the roof.

“All right, mes enfants,” cried the voice; “step lively, if you please.”

A faint light appeared, and we hastened towards it.

“You are to report at once to the governor,” said the man, who by his uniform I saw to be an officer. “Two of the guards are ill to-night and you will have to do double duty.”

“Very good, monsieur,” I answered, and saluting, we hurried down the steps, exchanging the pass-word with the two guards who were mounting to relieve us. Luckily we knew the location of the governor’s office. The darkness favored us, and at the magic words Montjoy and St. Denis the drawbridge was lowered and the gates were opened into the outer court.

“This way,” said Richelieu, “and pray heaven he be alone.”

We hastened towards a lighted window, which we could see distinctly through the darkness. Richelieu peered into the room.

“It is he,” he whispered. “He is sitting at a table writing, with his back to the door. I think he is alone. We must surprise him. Are you ready?” and he drew his dagger from his belt.

“Yes,” I said, “I am quite ready,” and I also drew my dagger.

He opened the door noiselessly, and we entered quickly. I shot the bolts into place, and with one spring Richelieu was at the side of Maison-Rouge, his poniard against his throat.

“One sound, one movement,” he said, between his teeth, “and you are a dead man, monsieur.”

Maison-Rouge looked around with a start, felt the dagger against his neck, and like a discreet man remained silent, his face impassive as ever.

“Now, de Brancas, quick. A gag and some rope.” I found both without difficulty. “We forget the window,” cried Richelieu, suddenly. “Close it, man.” I closed the iron shutter so that not a ray of light could be seen from without, and Maison-Rouge was soon secured.

“Now,” said Richelieu, “let us go.”

“On the contrary, let us stay,” I answered.

“How, stay? Are you mad?”

“Not at all. Alone, we shall never be able to pass the outer gate. Only M. de Maison-Rouge can get us out. The question is, will he do it?”

“Hardly,” said Richelieu.

“I believe that he will,” I said, “when he has fully considered the situation. One question, M. le Duc. Do you wish to leave Paris?”

“Certainly not.”

“And yet, if you escape, you will have to leave Paris, will you not, and perhaps France?”

“I fear so,” said Richelieu, gloomily.

“Ah, now I am sure that you will favor my plan. Now, M. de Maison-Rouge, attention. Let me tell you first that we have a very important engagement for this evening, which we are determined to keep. If we escape, leaving you behind here, your prestige is lost. Conceive the anger of the regent when he finds that you have permitted to slip through your fingers the two prisoners whom he had especially charged you to watch closely.”

A groan escaped the unfortunate man. His impassiveness yielded to this blow, as I had thought it would.

“On the other hand, what I propose to you is this. You order your coach, we enter with you, you drive out through the gates, announcing that you go on a mission of importance. Three hours later you drive in again, we with you.” I saw both men start. “You will send us back to our second watch on the roof. We release the two sentries, who will not have been discovered, return them their uniforms, secure their silence, regain our rooms, and remove all traces of our flight. Everything will be as it was before, and when in the morning the regent sends to inquire after his prisoners, you can inform him that they are safe. Does the plan strike you favorably, monsieur?”

I had been watching him closely as I talked and I was satisfied that he would consent. I loosened the gag.

“Do you consent, monsieur?” I repeated.

“What assurance have I that you will return with me?” he asked.

“My word of honor.”

“And yours also, M. le Duc?”

“Certainly, mine also,” answered Richelieu.

“Messieurs,” said Maison-Rouge, “I understand nothing of all this, but I am in your power. I will do anything to keep my prisoners. I consent.”

“And what assurance have we?” I asked.

“My word of honor also.”

“That will do,” said Richelieu. “Besides, we have always our poniards.”

“Let us make haste, then,” I cried, and I untied Maison-Rouge, first assuring myself that he was unarmed.

“Unbolt the door,” he said. Richelieu did so. The governor rang a bell. A man entered, and I saw Richelieu grip his dagger convulsively. At least, Maison-Rouge would not escape if he showed a sign of treachery.

“My coach, at once,” said the governor. “Inform Lieutenant Perrault that he is to take my place here until I return from a mission of importance.”

The man saluted and withdrew. I drew a breath of relief, and I felt that my forehead was damp with perspiration for the second time that night. Maison-Rouge donned his cloak and hat. Five tense minutes passed. Then the door opened and the man reappeared.

“The coach is waiting, monsieur,” he said.

“Very well,” replied the governor. “And Perrault?”

“Will be here in a moment, monsieur.”

“We will not wait for him. Follow me, my men,” and he led the way to a coach whose lanterns gleamed through the darkness. He entered first and we followed him. We were stopped at the drawbridge, and the sentry thrust in his head to be certain that it was really the governor of the Bastille who passed.

“All’s well,” he cried. The drawbridge creaked down and we rumbled over. There was a moment’s delay at the outer gate, then it was opened and we were free.

“Where to, monsieur?” asked the coachman, drawing up outside the gate.

I whispered in the governor’s ear.

“To the Hotel de Richelieu,” he answered.

Not a word was spoken as we dashed through the almost deserted streets, and we were soon in the Rue des Saints Pères. The coachman stopped before the central gate of the hotel.

“Wait a moment here,” said Richelieu, and he sprang from the coach, ran to the gate, and rang the bell. A lacquey answered the summons, and after a whispered word with him Richelieu motioned us forward. As we passed he stepped again into the coach, and the gate was closed behind us. In a moment we were at the great entrance of the house.

“Come with us, monsieur,” I said to Maison-Rouge, and motioned him to get out first.

“The governor wishes you on no account to leave this place,” I said to the driver as we descended. “M. de Maison-Rouge intends to look through the papers of M. de Richelieu. It may take some time, but you are to await him here.”

The coachman, well drilled, doubtless, in his master’s peculiar business, nodded to show that he understood.

We mounted the steps, and Richelieu knocked at the door. It was opened by Jacques, who recognized his master at once and admitted us without a word.

“Jacques,” said Richelieu, as the door closed, “you will conduct this gentleman to the red salon. Call two of my men and let them assist you in guarding him. On no account is he to escape or communicate with any one. You will, however, provide him with wine and whatever else he may require.”

The man bowed and led our prisoner down a corridor to the left. Richelieu sprang up the stairs, and I followed him to the apartment we had entered the evening before. Here he paused.

“De Brancas,” he said, turning to me and grasping my hand, “you are sublime, my friend. Believe me, I shall never forget it.”

CHAPTER VII
AT THE DRYAD FOUNTAIN

“We shall need disguises,” said Richelieu, as I returned his clasp with equal warmth. “Luckily, I have already had many occasions for using them, and so have a large assortment. Come with me,” and he led the way into an adjoining room, whose walls were covered with costumes. There were uniforms of many kinds, cavaliers’ suits of a dozen fashions and even the more sober garb of artisans and masons. At one end of the room was a collection of arms,—swords, poniards, pistols, arquebuses, and even shirts of mail. “Choose,” said Richelieu, with a sweep of his hand. “As for me, I shall take this suit of gray. I am known to abhor gray, and moreover it will make me invisible in the darkness.”

The reason seemed to me a good one, and I selected a suit of similar shade but much less elaborate design.

“Oh, I had near forgot!” I exclaimed, returning, as I was leaving the room. “Will you instruct one of your people to prepare against our return a small box of cement?”

“Cement?” asked Richelieu, looking at me in astonishment.

“Yes; we shall need it,” I answered.

“Very well, my friend,” he said, and without waiting to explain the use I had for it, I hurried to my apartment, where I changed my clothes, rolling my others into a bundle, which I carried down with me to Richelieu’s room five minutes later. I found him busily engaged in curling his moustache and arranging his hair.

“We have no time to lose, monsieur,” I protested.

“What the devil would you have, de Brancas?” and Richelieu threw around his neck a collar which I knew to be that of the Holy Ghost, with its eight-pointed cross, each point crowned by a ball. “A gentleman cannot go to a rendezvous looking like a bourgeois. I have ordered two horses, and I shall be ready to mount by the time they are at the door. You would better select a sword, a poniard, and a pistol, for you may have need of them before the night is over.”

I did as he suggested, and in a few minutes we were in the saddle. We crossed the river at a gallop, and without drawing rein plunged into a maze of narrow streets where I should have been utterly lost, but where Richelieu seemed quite at home. I expected every moment that my horse would break his leg in some hole in the pavement, but my companion did not slacken speed, and I pressed on behind him. I remembered that the rendezvous was in the Palais Royal gardens, and reflected without enthusiasm that this was walking into the lion’s jaws with a vengeance, but I kept my thoughts to myself, and in a moment we turned sharply to the left along a narrow street and came out at the end of a long avenue of chestnuts.

“This is the place,” said Richelieu, and we walked our horses into the shadow of the trees and dismounted. “We will tie our horses here. The fountain is not far distant, and we shall have no difficulty in regaining them should we be surprised. Ah! ’tis the hour,” he added, as ten o’clock sounded from St. Honoré. “In two hours we must be back in the Bastille. ’Tis well that the night is cold,” he continued, leading the way rapidly along the avenue, “else our task would have been more difficult, for this is a great place of resort in fine weather.”

Some distance away, through the leafless branches of the trees, I could see the lights of the Palais Royal gleaming. The moon had risen and shed a cold radiance over the gardens, beautiful even under December’s withering hand. Only under the broad branches of the chestnuts was there obscurity, and we kept carefully in the shadow.

“There is the fountain,” said Richelieu at the end of a moment, “but I see no one. Can it be that she has disappointed me? Perhaps she heard I had been imprisoned and thought I could not come. Ah, there is some one standing in the shadow. It must be she!” and he ran quickly forward.

I thought it much more likely to be a squad of the regent’s guards, but kept close at his elbow, determined to have a hand in whatever might befall. A moment later I saw two muffled figures standing near the fountain, and to these Richelieu ran.

“Ah, Charlotte!” he cried, falling on his knee before one of them, the instinct of his heart telling him which was the princess. “I protest to you that only the most cruel chance made us a moment late. I shall never cease to reproach myself for having kept you waiting.”

“And is it indeed you, M. le Duc?” asked a low voice, and I saw that Richelieu had gained possession of a hand and was covering it with kisses. “But I heard this evening that my father had sent you to the Bastille.”

“So he did,” said Richelieu, “but did you believe any prison in France strong enough to keep me from your side, Charlotte?”

“You escaped, then? But how?”

“For that we have to thank my friend here,” and Richelieu drew me forward. “Mademoiselle, allow me to present M. Jean de Brancas, a gentleman whom I have learned to trust as I would myself.”

“And who hopes some day to be of service to Mlle. de Valois,” I added, bowing over the hand which she graciously gave me.

“You have already been of service to me, monsieur,” she said, kindly, “in assisting M. de Richelieu to escape from prison. But I also have a companion. Come here, Louise. Gentlemen, this is my very dear friend Mlle. Louise Dacour, my trust in whom, I think, is fully attested by her being here to-night.”

We both bowed to her, and I caught a glimpse of laughing eyes and an adorable mouth, which made my heart leap.

“Let us go,” said Richelieu, offering his arm to the princess.

“But where?” she asked.

“I care not so we be together,” and as they moved away down the avenue I followed with Mlle. Dacour. The light touch of her hand on my arm filled me with an emotion which I tried in vain to analyze.

“Oh, come, M. de Brancas,” she said after a moment, in what seemed to me the sweetest voice in the world. “It is plainly to be seen that you have never been in love.”

“Never until this moment, mademoiselle, I swear to you,” I answered. “But how did you guess it?”

“No, no, you are not in love even now, I assure you, monsieur,” she laughed, “else you would not follow mademoiselle and the duke so closely.”

“It is true,” I said; “I was thoughtless,” and we walked more slowly until the two in front of us could be scarcely discerned.

“Now tell me,” said my companion, with a little gesture of command, “how did you leave the Bastille, monsieur?”

“We opened seven doors, lowered three drawbridges, and came out very easily, mademoiselle,” I answered.

“You shall not evade me,” she cried. “Tell me about it. I have already heard something of your exploits since you came to Paris, M. de Brancas,” she added, “and am anxious to hear more.”

I trembled with joy at the thought that I had, perhaps, already awakened some interest in the heart of this beautiful creature, and rapidly outlined our method of escape.

“It was magnificent!” she cried, as I finished. “Those are the kind of deeds I love to hear about,” and her sparkling eyes looked into mine. I felt that I was losing my self-control, and my heart was beating wildly.

“I did not guess the happiness that awaited me here,” I said, “nor have I ever dreamed of loveliness such as yours, mademoiselle.”

“It is evident that you have seen little of Paris, monsieur,” she retorted, glancing at me and smiling archly.

“I wish to see no more,” I cried. “Ah, mademoiselle, believe me, I may be but a simple and uncultured boor, but I mean to win for myself a place in your heart if it be possible.”

She glanced at me again, I dared think not unkindly, and I felt her hand fluttering on my arm.

“I deem you neither simple nor uncultured, M. de Brancas,” she said, after a moment. “Indeed, the stories I have heard of you have given me quite the contrary opinion. But pray where have you seen my face, that you have been able to form such an exalted opinion of it?” and she smiled at me, her eyes dancing with mischief.

“I caught but a glimpse of it by the fountain there, but a glimpse was quite enough,” I answered, stoutly. “Besides, I make bold to hope that by accident your cloak may yet slip down and reveal more of it.”

I was trembling at my own temerity.

“Ah, I like your spirit, monsieur,” she answered, gayly. “Have it as you will, then,” and at the word her cloak fell about her shoulders. Her dazzling eyes met mine, her mouth was curving in the most provoking of smiles. Some wizardry drew me towards her.

“No, no!” she said, divining my thought and holding up a little hand to keep me at a distance. “This is favor enough for one evening,” but I caught her hand and kissed it before she could draw it away. “Come, we have forgot completely our companions. We must join them.”

I had, indeed, forgotten Richelieu, and I remembered with a start that our time of freedom must be getting short. I peered anxiously through the darkness, but could see no sign of him.

“Perhaps they are at the fountain,” said Mlle. Dacour, and we hastened thither, but to no purpose. I was about to call aloud, when I heard a sudden shout and clash of arms from the direction of the Palais Royal.

“They have found him!” I cried. “He never thinks of prudence. Come, mademoiselle, let me see you to a place of safety. I must join him.”

“Oh, do not delay!” she implored. “I am perfectly safe, monsieur. Our apartments are but a step from here.”

“Impossible! I cannot leave you alone. Come,” I repeated.

She wrung her hands together as she looked at me.

“M. de Brancas, you said to me just now that you would have me think kindly of you.”

“With all my heart.”

“Would you have me believe it?”

“I would do anything to prove it,” I cried.

“Then go.” I looked into her eyes, which were flaming with excitement, caught her hand and kissed it. It nestled in mine for a moment.

“Adieu, mademoiselle,” I said, and was off under the trees. The sounds grew louder as I approached, and it was evident that the whole palace had been aroused. Windows were thrown open, soldiers were pouring out of a room in the left wing, and near the edge of the garden five or six men had a single man surrounded. At a glance I saw the latter to be Richelieu. He had placed his back against a tree and was fencing coolly. Even as I ran I saw one of his assailants totter and fall. I kept on without a sound, reached the group, and ran a man through before they perceived they were attacked in the rear. They gave back a pace.

“Come, monsieur,” I cried, “there will be others here in a moment.”

“Ah, gentlemen,” said Richelieu, saluting with his sword in careless disregard of the thrusts aimed at him, “believe me, were there only yourselves we should not think of leaving until our argument had reached a conclusion, but as it is, I regret that we must go.” And then he added to me, in a lower tone, “Retreat towards the horses. If we can reach them we are safe.”

I heard hurrying feet from the direction of the palace and did not doubt that we should be overwhelmed unless we reached the horses quickly. Richelieu had disabled another of our opponents, so that there were only three, and these drew off and followed us more warily. I saw others hastening towards us under the trees, but we had not far to go, and soon reached the horses.

“Charge them!” I cried, for they were just out of sword reach.

Our nearest pursuers retreated before us, and in the instant of time that followed we threw ourselves into the saddle. As we dashed out into the open an overhanging branch caught my companion’s hat and tore it from his head, leaving his face fully exposed in the bright moonlight.

“’Tis Richelieu!” cried one of the men. With an oath, the duke snatched a pistol from the holster and fired. The man threw his arms above his head and fell like a log. In a flash we were out of the avenue and in the city.

There was need of haste, for once the regent should learn that Richelieu had been in the garden, he would lose no time in getting to the Bastille to find out the truth. So we put spurs to our horses and dashed on like the wind, raising a veritable cannonade of echoes. In ten minutes we were at the Hotel de Richelieu, and throwing our bridles to a lacquey, rushed up the stairs, tore off our masquerades, and drew on our old suits, and over them the suits of the two sentries.

“One moment,” I said, as Richelieu started out of the room; “we shall need money, monsieur. Have you any?”

“You are right,” cried the duke, and he ran to a secretary, opened it, and filled his pockets with pistoles. “Now we are ready. Come.”

“The cement?” I asked. “Where is it?”

“Here,” and Richelieu handed me a small package from the table. I placed it carefully in a pocket of my own suit.

“All right,” I cried, and we descended the stairs in three bounds. Richelieu led the way along the corridor down which Jacques had taken his prisoner two hours before. He paused before a door and tried to open it. It was locked on the inside.

“Who is there?” cried a voice.

“It is I, Richelieu; open quickly.” The bolt was thrown and the door opened. Inside were Jacques and two other men, while Maison-Rouge was pacing nervously up and down.

“Ah, messieurs,” he cried, “I thought you were never coming! It is near midnight.”

“We have still ten minutes,” said Richelieu, coolly, “but there is no time to lose. Come,” and he led the way towards the door. We picked up the muskets as we passed through the hall, and as the door opened we fell a pace behind Maison-Rouge, and resuming our character of simple sentries, followed him to the carriage.

“To the Bastille!” cried the governor, and in a moment we were thundering along the street.

“M. de Maison-Rouge,” said Richelieu, in a low voice, “do not be astonished if you receive an early visit from the regent.”

“From the regent? And why so?”

“My friend and I had the misfortune to encounter some of the regent’s guards this evening,” said the duke, calmly, “and I fear that I was recognized.”

“The devil!” exclaimed Maison-Rouge. “Then all is lost.”

“Not at all,” I said, quickly. “At twelve o’clock we will be sent to the roof to go on guard. We will regain our rooms and remove all traces of our flight. You, monsieur, will go directly to bed, and should you be aroused, must consume as much time as possible in putting on your clothes. Even if the regent is right at our heels, that will give us at least ten minutes, and ten minutes is more than we shall need. I think when you show him that you have us safe, he will have little more to say.”

“I trust so, at least,” murmured Maison-Rouge, “though I confess I do not understand how you will accomplish all this. Until to-night I had thought the Bastille impregnable, but you seem to have found some miraculous way of leaving your cells and entering them again.”

I smiled as I encountered his dazed glance, but I judged it best to say nothing more. A moment later we reached the prison, the gates of which opened to the governor’s coach on the instant. There was a short delay at the first drawbridge, where the sentry again peered into the coach to see that all was right. Then we were in the court, the carriage stopped and we sprang out, just as midnight pealed from the tower.

“Lieutenant Perrault,” said the governor to a man who hastened towards us and saluted, “let Bastien and Drouet here take the next watch on the parapet. To-morrow let them have a holiday to repay for this double duty.”

“Very good, monsieur,” answered the lieutenant.

“You have nothing to report?” asked the governor, sharply.

“Nothing, monsieur. Everything has gone as usual.” I breathed a sigh of relief. The prisoners in the chimneys had not, then, been discovered.

“That is all, lieutenant,” said the governor. “I am going to bed immediately. Awake me if there is need.”

We saluted and followed Perrault. I blessed the impenetrable darkness of the narrow court which rendered it impossible to recognize friend or foe, and we walked in silence across the drawbridge and up the winding staircase.

“Montjoy,” cried Perrault, opening the door which led to the roof.

“St. Denis,” two voices answered.

“Hurry up,” cried Perrault. “It’s devilishly cold up here.”

The two sentries appeared and descended the stairs. We emerged upon the roof.

“You have my sympathy, comrades,” said Perrault, and closed the door.

There was not a moment to lose. I ran to the nearest chimney, clambered to the top and felt inside. I found the prisoner’s head in an instant. Catching him by the shoulders, I dragged him to the top and lowered him to Richelieu, who awaited him below. The other prisoner was soon standing beside him.

“Messieurs,” I said to them, “we have returned, as you see, and I wish you to listen to me very carefully. There remains only one thing for us to do. That is to silence you.” I saw them shudder. “It is necessary only to decide how you are to be silenced. In short, you must either engage to keep silence or we shall be obliged to silence you once and for all. Which do you prefer, a hundred pistoles each or a blow of the poniard and a drop over the parapet?” I loosened their gags as I spoke.

“Monsieur,” said one of them, “a fool could choose. I will take the pistoles, will not you, Bastien?”

“I, also,” answered his comrade, readily, “provided no one else knows of your escape, messieurs?”

“No one knows of it. Every one thought we were you. At the end of the watch you will be relieved; you will go down. To-morrow you will have a holiday in which to spend your pistoles. If any one interrogates you, swear that no one passed this way. You will be quite safe.”

“But you, messieurs?” asked Bastien.

“We return to our cells, and everything is as it was before. Do you agree?”

“We agree,” they cried with one voice, though by the way they looked at us it was plain they thought us fools to have returned.

“Very good. Now we will unbind you, and you will go to the other side of the parapet. We will take off your uniforms and leave them here with your muskets. After we have descended, you will come and loosen the rope which you will find secured here. Let it fall, as we wish to keep it. You understand?”

“Yes, yes,” they cried. Richelieu counted out two hundred pistoles and placed them by the muskets.

“Here is the money,” he said.

I untied the ropes and the two men retreated to the other side of the roof. In a moment I had knotted the pieces of rope together, made one end secure and dropped the other over.

“I will go first,” I said. “The knots may slip,” and before the duke could protest I was over the battlement. I let myself down hand over hand until I was opposite my window, but I found the bars beyond my reach. By a supreme effort I touched the wall with my foot and pushed myself outward, and as I swung in I grasped one of the bars and pulled myself to the window-ledge. I tied the end of the rope to the bars, so that the duke could reach them without difficulty, and then slipped into the cell. He followed a moment later, and the rope was loosened from above and fell. I drew it in.

“You must get back to your cell at once,” I said, and raised the slab in the floor, slid the one below it back and crawled aside for him to pass.

“But the window?” he asked. “If they find a bar out they will know everything.”

“Leave that to me,” I answered; “I will replace it.”

The duke wrung my hand and dropped through the opening into the cell below. I replaced the slabs, concealing the rope, for which we might have further need. Then I ran to the window and forced the bar back into place. I opened the box of cement, moistened it with water from my can, and rapidly filled up the places where the old cement had been broken away, rubbing my fingers over it until convinced that it was quite smooth. It was drying rapidly and would soon set. I raised the slab again and placed the box with the remainder of the cement beneath it. I rubbed my hands on the floor and then over the new cement, until I could see by the moonlight which filtered through the bars that it was dirty as the adamant which surrounded it. Satisfied that it could not be detected without close examination, I threw myself exhausted upon the bench.

Scarcely had I done so when I heard a noise in the cell below. In an instant I was at the loosened slab.

“What is it now?” I heard Richelieu ask, in a sleepy voice, of some one who had evidently entered his cell. “Upon my word,” he continued, “’tis the regent! To what do I owe the honor of this visit, monsieur?”

“You see ’tis as I told Your Highness,” cried the voice of Maison-Rouge. “The prisoners are safe, and assuredly will not leave their cells until I get an order permitting them to do so.”

“You are playing with me, gentlemen!” thundered the regent, in a terrible voice. “Richelieu was recognized not half an hour since in the gardens of the Palais Royal.”

“Some mistake, I do not doubt,” said Richelieu, carelessly.

“A mistake, pardieu! Perhaps it was also a mistake that I met my daughter returning to her apartment? Do you deny that it was with you she had a rendezvous?”

“Oh, M. le Regent, I deny nothing,” cried Richelieu, airily. “Why should I? It is so manifestly absurd. You say I was at the Palais Royal a few minutes since. You rush here with all speed. You find me asleep in my cell. All the doors are bolted, all the drawbridges raised, every sentry at his post. I ask you, monsieur, if the Bastille is so easily left and entered? Besides, monsieur could easily interrogate the sentries.”

The regent caught at the suggestion.

“Maison-Rouge,” he said, “call that sentry in the corridor.”

The man was called.

“Has any one passed since you have been on duty?” asked the regent.

“No one but yourselves, monsieur.”

“You are certain?”

“Perfectly certain, monsieur?”

“How long have you been on duty?”

“Over three hours, monsieur.”

Here was a facer for the regent.

“Come,” I heard him exclaim, suddenly, “perhaps the other has not returned. I do not doubt that it was he who was with Richelieu.”

I was back on my bench in an instant. The door opened, and I lifted my head as from a heavy sleep. I saw Maison-Rouge on the threshold carrying a lantern, and back of him the regent. I was on my feet with a bound.

“It appears to me that your prisoners sleep with suspicious soundness, Maison-Rouge,” said the regent, pushing past him into the room. He glanced about it keenly, went to the window and shook the bars, but found nothing suspicious.

“How does it happen,” he asked, “that the window here has only single bars, while those of the floors below have double ones?”

“Good God! what would you have, monsieur?” cried Maison-Rouge. “Suppose there were no bars at all, still to escape the prisoner has a drop of ninety feet into a court-yard full of sentries, with a wall forty feet high to pass before he is free. A man would need wings to escape from here, monsieur.”

“I am beginning to think so myself,” muttered the regent. And then, turning sharply, “So you have been here all evening, Monsieur—I forget your name?”

“Jean de Brancas,” I said, bowing.

“So you have been here all evening, have you, M. de Brancas?”

“It seems to me a useless question,” I answered. “Monsieur forgets that I have been in the Bastille only since yesterday afternoon.”

“What then?”

“To consider monsieur’s question seriously would mean that he deemed it possible for a man, in the short space of six or eight hours, not only to force his way out of this formidable prison, but to force his way in again, and to leave no trace of his passage in either direction.”

“You are right,” and the regent bit his lips. “Come, Maison-Rouge,” he added, “let us go. Your prisoners are doubtless anxious to resume their slumber,” and he smiled into my eyes and turned away.

They left the cell, and I heard their footsteps die away down the corridor. A moment later Richelieu signalled me.

“They discovered nothing?” he asked, as I answered the signal.

“Absolutely nothing.”

“But how did you replace the bar in the window?”

“That was what the cement was for.”

“De Brancas, you are a genius!” exclaimed Richelieu. “But we both need sleep. Good-night, my friend.”

“Good-night,” I answered, and lay down again upon the bench. My eyes closed in sheer exhaustion despite the cold, and I dreamed that I was again walking in the Palais Royal gardens with Louise Dacour at my side and her warm little hand in mine.

CHAPTER VIII
AN AUDIENCE WITH THE REGENT

The sun was shining brightly through the bars of my window when I opened my eyes. So soundly had I slept that I had not heard the entry of the guard, who had placed my breakfast on the chair beside me. It consisted of a pound of bread, which I learned afterwards was the daily allowance for each prisoner in the Bastille, and a plate of haricot, in which bones and turnips were most conspicuous, and which I judged to consist of the remains of the dinner of the previous day. A can of water completed the repast, and I ate without grumbling. Not knowing that the bread was to last me the entire day, I ate it all. Then I sat down to think over the adventures of the night before, but I saw only the sweet face of Louise Dacour, and my heart trembled as I thought of the abyss I needs must span ere I could stand beside her, an equal in rank and fortune. Yet a stout heart might accomplish even that.

A tapping on the floor brought me back to earth, and I heard Richelieu’s voice calling me.

“De Brancas,” he cried, “de Brancas, tell me that it was not all a dream.”

“A dream,” I answered; “then I, too, have dreamed, monsieur.”

“And we really did escape? We were at the dryad fountain?”

“If you could see my hands, monsieur, you would not doubt it,” and I looked at them myself with tender solicitude, for they were abraded and blistered in many places.

“Ah, yes,” cried Richelieu, “it was you who devised that plan,—who did the work. It was a masterpiece, Jean. I shall always remember it.”

And he fell silent for a moment.

“You saw her, did you not, Jean?” he asked, suddenly.

“Yes, I saw her.”

“Her eyes?”

“Yes.”

“And are they not the most beautiful in the kingdom?”

“I am glad you think so, monsieur,” I said. “As for me, I have found two others which content me admirably.”

“Two others?” he questioned, in an astonished voice. “But to whom do they belong?”

“To Mlle. Dacour,” I answered simply.

“Oh, my poor friend!” exclaimed Richelieu, and I heard him laughing. “Is your heart also in the toils? In faith, you have my sympathy. But come, the affair is not altogether hopeless. What do you know of Mlle. Dacour?”

“Nothing, absolutely nothing, but that she is beautiful and smiles divinely,” I cried. “Ah, tell me all you know!” and I hung upon every word.

“She was the daughter of Chevalier Louis-Armand Dacour, who died a year ago, leaving her an honored name, but little wherewith to support it. Mlle. de Valois found her, it seems, admired her, and they are now inseparable. I have heard something more concerning her which favors your cause,” added the duke, and he laughed again.

“Which favors my cause?” I asked, incredulously.

“She loves brave men,” said Richelieu. “She abhors the wits and roués who have congregated about the regent, and they tell many stories of the ways in which she makes them feel her scorn. She sighs for the days of the Great Cardinal, when good blows were stoutly given and cheerfully taken. Another exploit such as that of last night, de Brancas, and, believe me, her heart is yours.”

“No, no, you are jesting,” I murmured. Yet she had listened with sparkling eyes to the story of our escape. Well, if a sword could win a way to her heart, mine should not be idle.

“But come,” cried the duke, “we have talked enough of your affairs. Let us talk of mine. Can you guess what she has promised me?”

“What is it, monsieur?” I asked, with a sinking heart, for I had little doubt as to the answer.

“A rendezvous for to-morrow night. Not in the cold avenues of the garden this time, but in her apartment in the Palais Royal.”

“And you intend to keep this rendezvous?” I asked.

“Assuredly; why not? Did we not keep that of yesterday?”

“Yes,” I admitted, “but miracles do not happen twice in the same way. However, we shall see.”

“’Tis true about the King of Sardinia,” continued Richelieu, in a more gloomy tone. “He has sent proposals for her hand, and the regent swears she shall consent. But she says she would rather die, and I trust we may yet find a way out of it. Ah, there is some one coming!”

A moment later I heard the door of his cell opened and the voice of Maison-Rouge.

“The regent has just sent me an order for your release, M. le Duc,” he said.

“My release?”

“Yes. Unfortunately, there is a squadron of horse awaiting in the court-yard to convey you to your regiment at Bayonne at once. Come, monsieur.”

“To Bayonne? I am exiled from Paris, then?”

“So it seems.”

“But my friend?”

“There are no orders for him. He must remain here.”

“M. de Maison-Rouge,” demanded Richelieu, “did my friend and I keep the agreement we made with you last night?”

“To the letter. Better than I had hoped.”

“You may then have some feeling of friendship for us?”

“What is it, monsieur?”

“M. de Maison-Rouge, I ask you to go out of that door, close it after you, and withdraw ten paces. At the end of five minutes return and I shall be ready to accompany you. Do this for me, monsieur, and I shall not forget it.”

“You will not escape?” asked Maison-Rouge. “It is not a trick?”

“I swear to you, monsieur, that I shall be here when you open the door.”

“Very well; I believe I can trust you, M. le Duc,” and I heard him withdraw and clang the door shut after him.

“Jean, Jean,” called Richelieu, “you heard?”

“Yes, everything,” I answered.

“The regent doubtless thinks I shall be safer at Bayonne, three hundred leagues away, than in the Bastille. Well, so be it, but nevertheless I shall keep tryst with Charlotte to-morrow night. Listen. Be at the dryad fountain at ten o’clock. I will meet you there. I do not doubt Louise Dacour will be there also.”

I trembled at the thought.

“If human power can do it I will be there,” I said.

“And listen, Jean,” continued Richelieu; “you are to make my house your home if you get out of here. You understand? Jacques will know you. Silence. The governor is returning.”

A moment later his door was opened again.

“Are you ready, monsieur?” asked Maison-Rouge.

“Quite ready,” answered Richelieu, “and a thousand thanks for your courtesy.”

They were gone and I was left alone with reflections that were not too pleasant. What did the regent intend doing with me? To a man of Richelieu’s position some consideration must be shown, but I might be thrown into an oubliette to rot and no one would ask twice about me. Verily, I thought, if I get out of this place again I shall do my best to stay out.

Noon came, and with it my dinner of soup, a piece of the meat of which it had been made, an apple, and a bottle of wine. I had no bread, for I had eaten all of mine for that day, and the sentry gruffly refused to give me more. I ate the dinner to the last morsel—for it has ever been my belief that the more desperate a man’s condition the greater his need of food—and spent the afternoon looking out through the bars across the fields and watching the busy highway which led towards the city. I thought of Louise, and then with a trembling dread of what it would mean to remain in this accursed hole for a year or even for a month. I vainly cudgelled my brain for a plan of escape, but could discover none which offered even a possibility of success. The weather had turned warm again, for which I was thankful, for the calotte was exposed to every wind, and must be frightfully cold in severe weather. The allowance of wood was limited to six pieces a day, and the wretched stove was wholly incapable of heating the place even with plenty of fuel.

The afternoon passed and evening came. I ate the scant supper, crept into the snuggest corner, drew my bench against me for greater warmth, and soon fell asleep. The sun again awoke me, and the second morning went much as the first had done, only more wearisomely. I passed the hours in a kind of frenzy. One thought ran ceaselessly through my brain,—to escape—to escape—but how? I could find no answer. About the middle of the afternoon I was startled by the sound of the bolts of my door being thrown, and turned from my window as a sentry entered.

“You are to follow me,” he said.

“Gladly,” I replied. “Nothing can be worse than this place,” and I descended the staircase after him. We emerged into the well court, then into the outer court, and crossed the bridge into the court beyond, my guard saying never a word, but directing his steps towards the governor’s office. A coach surrounded by a squad of mounted guards stood before it. Maison-Rouge himself met us at the door.

“M. de Brancas,” he said, “the regent has sent for you. Enter the coach, and these gentlemen will conduct you to him.”

“The devil!” I thought. “The regent! What can he want?” But without permitting any of my discomposure to appear in my face, I entered the coach. We were soon outside the walls, and I looked about for an opportunity to escape, but saw none. The guards were too many; besides, they were on horseback, while I should be on foot. Right across the city we drove, and I looked out upon the people passing to and fro and reflected bitterly that they were free and could go where they listed. But I had little time for meditation, for we were soon at the Palais Royal, and two of the guards dismounting, asked me to descend from the carriage. They placed themselves on either side of me, and we mounted the staircase. Some ten minutes we waited in a small antechamber to which no one else was admitted, and then we were shown into the presence of the regent.

“Good-day, M. de Brancas,” he said, coolly; and added to the guards, “You may go. I fancy I shall not need you again.” Then he turned to me. “Now, M. de Brancas, I intend to have a candid talk with you. But first, tell me, why are you my enemy?”

“But I am not your enemy, monsieur,” I protested.

“Then why do you associate with my enemies?” he asked.

“Because they are my friends, monsieur.”

“Ah! But my police tell me that you have been in Paris but ten days. You seem to make friends quickly.”

“Monsieur,” I answered, “I admit that ten days is not a long time, but in that time M. le Duc de Richelieu has twice saved my life. It will take me much longer than ten days to repay that indebtedness.”

Orleans looked at me a moment, and I fancied there was kindness in his eye. I admit the man pleased me, for he had an engaging address and an affable and kindly manner. I reflected that in his youth this man had been of high courage and ambition, and that if he had become a profligate, it was largely the fault of the king, who had always hated him, and of the Abbé Dubois, who had been his preceptor. Doubtless something of my thought appeared in my face, for the regent smiled somewhat sadly.

“You have heard horrible stories about me, have you not, M. de Brancas?” he asked. “It was I, they say, who poisoned the young Duke and Duchess of Burgundy, who am an astrologer, an alchemist, and an intimate friend of the devil.”

“Oh, monsieur,” I stammered, “but I have never believed such calumnies.”

“No,” said the regent, “I do not think that any one who knows me really believes them. Only my enemies use them against me in order to pull me down. But the kingdom will endure, no matter who assaults it. Do you believe in fate?” he asked, abruptly.

“Undoubtedly, monsieur,” I answered, and I looked at him with astonished eyes.

He smiled as he glanced at me.

“You may understand, then,” he said, “why I do not fear. For I believe that it is fate which has committed to my hands the destinies of this kingdom. And I intend to deserve the trust,—I intend to make it a kingdom better worth living in.”

He fell silent for a moment, playing with a paper which lay before him on the table. That he really meant what he said—that he had in his heart many plans for the good of the people—I do not doubt. Ah, that he had been stronger and turned a deaf ear to those who led him from his purpose!

A tap on the door aroused him, and at his command an usher entered.

“What is it?” he asked, sharply.

“A deputation from the King of Sardinia to see Your Highness,” replied the man.

The regent’s face brightened and he straightened up in his chair. Evidently, the delegation was welcome.

“Ah, about the marriage,” and I bit my lips to repress the exclamation which would have burst from me. “How many are in the deputation?”

“Three, monsieur.”

“Then I will receive them here.” The usher bowed and withdrew. “Nay, stay, M. de Brancas,” he added to me, seeing that I made a movement to leave the room. “This is not a state secret, but merely a family affair, and one which I am quite willing for all the world to know. Besides, there may be something which I wish you especially to hear.”

I felt my face crimson under his glance, whose hidden meaning I could not doubt, but there was no time to protest, even had I dared to do so, for the usher was back in a moment with the deputation at his heels. As they approached the regent I gazed at them with astonishment, for I could have sworn that they were livid with fear.

“You come from the King of Sardinia, I believe, messieurs,” said the regent, graciously. “I trust that he is well.”

The deputies bowed as one man.

“He is well, Your Highness,” replied one of them, evidently the chief, “and begs to present his respects and good wishes.”

“I thank him,” and the regent bowed in turn. “And what message do you bring from him?”

I noticed that one of the men was wetting his lips convulsively, and as he hesitated for an answer a tapestry was raised and a man entered, whom I knew instinctively to be Dubois. The regent glanced at him impatiently, but said nothing.

“You may remember, M. le Regent,” began the spokesman, in a trembling voice, “that some days ago the king sent to you a request for the hand of your daughter, Mlle. de Valois, in marriage.”

“I remember it very well,” said the regent, a storm gathering on his brow as he began to suspect some unpleasant dénouement. “What then?”

“Since that time,” continued the ambassador, “the king has considered the matter more carefully, and has found that he acted in haste, and that his health will not permit this marriage. He desires, therefore, to withdraw the request.”

“What!” cried the regent, bounding from his chair and seeming about to fall upon the delegates, “withdraw the request? Do you know what you are saying, messieurs? And what is the reason for this extraordinary action?”

“I have already had the honor of telling Your Highness,” faltered the man. I did not wonder that he had entered the room with livid face and trembling knees.

“Pardon me,” interrupted a smooth voice, which made me start and filled me with disgust, and the Abbé Dubois stepped forward, “I believe I can throw some light upon the matter. I received a moment ago a message from my agent who has been near the King of Sardinia, and I was about communicating it to Your Highness when I found the delegation here. My correspondent writes that the king yesterday received word of a certain encounter of the night before in the gardens of the Palais Royal.” I colored as I felt the speaker’s eyes on mine, but I returned his gaze without winking. “In view of this information, he has changed his mind about desiring to wed Mlle. de Valois.”

“So,” said the regent, falling into that menacing calm which I had already seen in the Café Procope, “it is Richelieu who has done this. Do you hear, monsieur?” he continued, turning to me with a deadly purpose in his face. “I swear that if Richelieu crosses my path again his head shall fall. But,” he asked, turning suddenly to Dubois, “how did the King of Sardinia hear of this affair so quickly?”

“He was in Paris,” answered Dubois. “He came incognito a week since, for the purpose, I think, of getting a glimpse of the princess before asking for her hand. Hérault’s men have been watching him for me.”

“And where is he now?” asked the regent, eagerly.

“He left Paris at noon yesterday, monsieur,” and I thought to myself that he had done well to be far away before that message was delivered.

“Ah!” said the regent, in a tone of disappointment; and then turning to the deputation, “Messieurs, go back to your little king and tell him that he shall not escape chastisement. What! the ruler of a toy island in the Mediterranean dare to insult the regent of France? My arm is long enough to reach him, messieurs, and my hand strong enough to crush him. Go!”

The deputation hurried to the door, evidently only too glad to escape so lightly, and at a sign from the regent Dubois followed them.

“You have heard, M. de Brancas,” said the regent, turning to me, his face still red with anger, “this insult which has been put upon me, and you understand, of course, that it is Richelieu I have to thank for it, for I still believe that it was he and you who were in the Palais Royal gardens. But I am going to be generous, monsieur. You are free. I do not believe that in your heart you are my enemy. But keep away from plotting and intrigue, try to find some honorable employment for your sword, which, I have been assured, you know how to wield, and warn Richelieu to trouble me no more, else I will crush him as I would a fly.”

“I thank you, monsieur,” I said simply. “I shall not forget your kindness.”

“I am sure of it,” said the regent, and motioned me to go.

I left the palace with a light heart, and made my way to the Hotel de Richelieu. Jacques admitted me at once, and in a few words I told the anxious fellow what had happened to his master, and that he would probably return to Paris in the evening. This done, I took a bath and donned a change of raiment, and then sat down before a meal which Jacques had ordered for me, and which was in pleasing contrast to my food of the past two days. I glanced at the window and saw that evening was already at hand, and as Jacques brought the candles, I pulled my chair before the fire, with a bottle of wine at my elbow. Louise Dacour’s sweet face danced before me in the flames, and I wondered if it were indeed to be my fortune to see her again before the morning came.

CHAPTER IX
THE CONSERVE CLOSET

Eight o’clock sounding from the Théatins near by brought me out of my revery. I reflected that it would be well to employ the two hours remaining in examining the gardens of the Palais Royal and the building itself, in so far as possible, on the same principle which makes the general attentively study the field upon which he is placing his forces. I therefore donned again the gray suit I had worn two evenings before, and buckling a sword to my belt, called Jacques, told him where I was going in case Richelieu should return and ask for me, and left the house. The weather had continued warm and a full moon silvered the city with a magic touch. It seemed to me that everybody was in the streets. The Quai Malaquest was crowded, even the steps leading down to the water and the broad landing-places being filled with people watching the boats dropping down the river or painfully making way against it.

The Hotel de Mailly, just opposite the Pont Royal, was a blaze of light, and I saw that some fête was in progress. It was with difficulty that I crossed the bridge, the press of carriages and throng of foot passengers being so great that they threatened at times to burst over the parapets. I finally won across and passed before the Tuileries, casting a glance at the entrance of Madame du Maine’s salon, which was brilliantly lighted as ever. Here, too, there was a great crowd, for the gardens of the Tuileries were a popular pleasure-ground, and in the evenings, even in severe weather, were thronged with people who had no opportunity during the day of drawing a breath of pure air. The Rue St. Vincent brought me out upon the Rue St. Honoré, the busiest street in the great city, and down this I turned, and soon reached the Palais Royal.

I was already familiar with that portion of the building which fronted on the Rue St. Honoré, extending in a line broken only by the great entrance from the Rue de Richelieu to the Bons Enfants, for I had passed it more than once in my wanderings of the week I was alone in Paris. It was in the gardens at the back and the buildings facing them that I was most concerned, for I knew that the apartments of the regent’s daughter must be somewhere in that part of the palace. I turned down the Rue de Richelieu and entered the gardens through one of the innumerable entrances which pierced the buildings along this street. The broad avenues of stately chestnuts were thronged with cavaliers and ladies, sumptuously dressed, many of them wearing masks, from which I judged that ours were not the only love-affairs afoot. But without pausing to more than glance at them, I approached the palace and examined it intently.

At the right was a low wall enclosing a square in which were several flower-beds, a fountain, and an avenue of trees. This I judged to be a private park. The buildings on either side of this small garden had blank walls, the windows having evidently been omitted to insure greater privacy. The row of buildings fronting it, however, was lofty and elegant, and built in a semi-detached fashion. I argued that I could hardly be wrong in supposing these to be the apartments of the members of the regent’s family.

Further examination confirmed this. To the left of the small garden was a lofty building which resembled nothing so much as a soldier’s barracks, and to the left of this again a high wall pierced by seven gate-ways gave entrance to the inner court, which I did not attempt to penetrate. Still farther to the left, and counterbalancing the space occupied by the garden at the right, was another row of tall and ugly buildings, which I decided were occupied by the servants of the palace and attendants of the regent.

Having completed this survey, I turned my attention to the gardens. A broad avenue of chestnuts extended along either side. Between these avenues were wide lawns where many flower-beds doubtless bloomed in summer, and in the middle of the garden was a circular pool in which was a fountain. Farther down the avenue and near the end of the gardens I came to the dryad fountain, which awakened in me so sweet a memory that I lingered by it.

“M. de Brancas appears to be thoughtful to-night,” said a low, clear voice at my elbow.

I turned with a start and saw a masked lady standing beside me, but the voice and the beating of my heart told me in an instant who she was.

“Ah, Mlle. Dacour,” I exclaimed, bowing before her, “shall I tell you of what I was thinking? It was of a night not long ago when on this very spot I met the lady whom I love and whom I am dying to serve.”

“Not so loud, monsieur,” she commanded; “do you not see by this mask that I wish to remain unrecognized? Come, let us move away from here. ’Tis not yet time for the rendezvous.”

“Would it were hours away instead of minutes, mademoiselle,” I cried, “if it were permitted me to walk with you here!” and I gave her my arm, vainly endeavoring to put into words the emotion which I felt. Perhaps she understood, for she leaned against me lightly, and I caught the sweet, faint perfume of her hair.

“M. le Duc will be here, will he not?” she asked.

“I trust so, mademoiselle,” I answered. “As I suppose you know, he was released from the Bastille yesterday and ordered to join his regiment at Bayonne. But he assured me that he would be at the fountain at ten o’clock to-night.”

“Then he will be there,” said Mlle. Dacour, lightly. “Do you know, monsieur, I am beginning to believe that you and Richelieu have the power of achieving everything upon which you really set your hearts.”

“Would that I could believe so, mademoiselle!” I cried. “There is one thing above all others upon which I have set my heart. Do you believe I shall achieve that also?”

“How can I tell,” she answered, glancing at me with mischievous eyes, “not knowing what this wonderful something is?”

“But can you not guess, mademoiselle?” I was trembling with joy and apprehension, a trembling which she must have felt, for she quickened her pace.

“Let us postpone the riddle, M. de Brancas,” she said. “’Tis time for us to be at the fountain,” and we turned our steps thither.

I dared say nothing further, for I could not guess what was in her heart and had not the courage to risk a rebuff. The sauntering couples had grown less numerous as the night grew colder. Ah, had they held in their hearts the flame of a love like mine no stress of weather could have driven them apart! As we approached the fountain I saw a proud figure standing near it, which I recognized in an instant.

“’Tis he,” I said, and we hastened forward.

“In faith, I had almost given you up, de Brancas,” cried Richelieu, gayly, as he wrung my hand and bowed to my companion. “How did you get out of that devil of a prison?”

“Very easily,” I answered, “since the regent was kind enough to open the doors for me.”

“That was thoughtful of him, and I envy you the hour you have passed with this fair lady.”

“Oh, M. le Duc,” cried Mlle. Dacour, “our conversation has been most sober, and concerned mostly with your affairs.”

“De Brancas,” exclaimed the duke, “your friendship goes too far. Forget me, I beg of you, when you are with Mlle. Dacour. I should never forgive myself if I thought that my petty concerns interfered with the discussion of more appropriate and more interesting things.”

“But how did you escape, monsieur?” I inquired. “The regent sent a squadron of horse with you, did he not?”

“Oh, yes,” answered Richelieu, airily, “but they do not know how to ride. Last night we stopped at Chartres. This morning we set off again at a snail’s pace, and by noon reached Orleans, where we stopped for dinner. I was ashamed of the company in which I found myself and determined to leave it. So when the guards were in a half-somnolent state, digesting their dinner like so many pigs, I knocked a couple of them out of the way, mounted my horse, and rode leisurely back to Paris by way of Etampes and Limours. ’Twas too easily done to mention further.”

“But the guards are doubtless on your track, if they have not already reached Paris!” I exclaimed.

“I suppose so,” said Richelieu, carelessly; “but how can they suspect that I am here in the gardens of the Palais Royal talking to Mlle. Dacour and yourself, and that I am presently to see Mlle. de Valois again? Is it not so, mademoiselle?” he asked, turning to Louise.

“Oh, yes, M. le Duc,” she answered. “Come. She is awaiting you.”

“While I have been idling here!” cried Richelieu, and sprang forward.

“And I?” I asked.

“Come also, M. de Brancas,” she said, smiling over her shoulder. “We have seen that you know how to be of service and that you are discreet.”

I needed no second bidding.

A bank of clouds obscured the moon, but Mlle. Dacour advanced without hesitation and led the way, as I had expected, towards the right wing of the palace with the little garden in front. A gate in the low surrounding wall yielded to her touch, but instead of advancing straight forward across the garden she kept to the right in the shadow of the buildings, where suddenly she stopped. I looked about to discover the reason for this, for there was an apparently solid wall beside us, when I saw her passing her hand slowly over it, and in a moment a section of the masonry swung back, operated by a spring which she had pressed.

“What wonder is this?” asked Richelieu.

“No wonder at all,” replied the girl. “Simply one of the devices arranged many years ago by Cardinal Mazarin for purposes of his own. There are many such in the building, if one only knows how to find them. Enter, messieurs.”

We bowed our heads and entered, Mlle. Dacour following us and closing the hidden door after her. There was a lighted lantern standing in one corner of the small room in which we found ourselves, and she picked it up and motioned us to follow. A long, narrow passage led to the right, and after traversing this we came to a small spiral staircase. Up this we mounted, and found that it ended apparently in a blank wooden wall. Along this Mlle. Dacour felt with one hand, and as I watched her closely, a section of the wall swung outward. We passed through and it closed after us. I saw with astonishment that the wall through which we had come was covered with shelving, filled with jars of various preserved fruits, glasses of jelly, and boxes of sweetmeats. At that instant Mlle. Dacour held up a warning finger and blew out the light.

“It is, indeed, an unexpected honor,” I heard a voice say, which I recognized as that of the princess. “To what happy chance do I owe it, monsieur?”

“Who can it be?” I heard Louise murmur, for we seemed to have gravitated together in the dark, and the fact that she did not resent my encircling arm filled me with unreasonable joy and made me bless the circumstance which held us prisoner here.

“I come merely to bring you some news which I thought might interest you,” replied a voice, which made me start and Louise tremble. “May I not sit down, my dear daughter?”

“Come, let us go,” whispered Louise. “’Tis folly to remain here.”

“Nay, let us stay rather,” replied Richelieu in the same tone. “I am curious to hear this news which the regent has brought. What say you, de Brancas?”

“I am quite content to stay,” I answered, and I drew Louise closer to me.

“As I suppose you know, mademoiselle,” the regent’s voice was saying when the beating of my heart permitted me to hear, “the King of Sardinia has withdrawn his proposal for your hand.”

“It has saved him a rebuff,” answered Charlotte.

“I am not so sure of that,” and the regent laughed. “But do you know why he has done this? I see from your face that you do not. It was because of a certain rendezvous in the gardens here, news of which had got abroad and had reached the king’s ears. It seems I was not the only one who saw you running towards your apartment that night, and the others were not so discreet as I. Do you understand now, mademoiselle?”

I heard Richelieu utter an oath and fumble for the latch of the door.

“For God’s sake, keep quiet, monsieur!” I whispered. “There may be other news.”

“True,” murmured Richelieu, and he stood where he was.

There was a moment’s silence in the outer room, and then the regent’s voice continued,—

“But do not despair, Charlotte. I have found you another husband. Not a king, perhaps, but of good birth and high rank, who is also complaisant enough to overlook your little shortcomings.”

“And may I ask who this gentleman is?” inquired Charlotte’s trembling voice.

“The Duc de Modena,” said the regent. “See, he has sent his portrait in order that, by gazing at it, you may become acquainted with your future husband before the wedding-day arrives.”

“The Duc de Modena!” exclaimed the girl. “Impossible! You must be jesting, monsieur. The Duc de Modena is old enough to be my grandfather.”

“I assure you that I am far from jesting, Charlotte,” and the regent’s voice took a sterner tone. “As for his age, he certainly bears it well. Here is his portrait. You can see for yourself that he is not an uncomely man.”

“Take it away! I refuse to look at it!” she cried, and we heard a scuffle and a crash of glass, which betokened the destruction of the portrait.

Richelieu was again fumbling for the latch of the door, swearing softly to himself, and again I restrained him.

“That was a foolish act, mademoiselle,” said the regent, “for now you will not know your husband, even when you see him, for I swear that you shall marry the Duc de Modena.”

“And I swear that I shall not!” screamed Charlotte. “I will die first!”

“And perhaps you wish some one else to die first also,” continued the regent in an unchanged voice.

“Some one else? I do not understand, monsieur.”

“Permit me to tell you a little more of my news and you will understand perfectly. You know, doubtless, that yesterday I released the Duc de Richelieu from the Bastille and sent him to join his regiment at Bayonne?”

“Well?”

“Well, to-day at noon, at Orleans, he chose to leave his escort and return to Paris.”

“Continue, monsieur.”

“He was not closely pursued, for his escort had their orders. I suspected that he would do something of the kind, and I also suspected the reason. Do you know what I have sworn, mademoiselle?”

She did not answer, and there was a moment’s pause.

“I have sworn that Richelieu’s head shall fall if he comes in my way again. I set a very pretty trap for him and he has walked straight into it. In this trap you were the bait, my dear.”

I felt Louise trembling against me. Richelieu was breathing deeply.

“Yes, a trap,” cried the regent; “and if I mistake not, the mice are already in it. Are there not mice in your conserve closet, mademoiselle? I fancied I heard a noise there.”

Richelieu, unable to control himself longer, threw open the door with a crash and sprang into the room.

“As you see, M. le Regent,” he cried, hoarse with rage, “the mice are here. But I warn you that they have sharp teeth and know how to use them.”

CHAPTER X
THE REGENT SCORES A POINT

Philip of Orleans was leaning back in a large chair facing the closet in which we had been concealed, and he did not alter his position a hair’s-breadth as Richelieu sprang into the room with drawn sword, I but a pace behind him. Indeed, his face did not change a muscle, and he turned towards us the smile he had employed with his daughter. But the latter, recognizing her lover, sank into a chair, her face drawn and gray with fear.

“Ah, M. le Duc,” said the regent, still smiling, “you remained among the preserves longer than I believed you would. You have great patience.”

“You shall never again have cause to say so, monsieur!” cried Richelieu, white with anger, “for I swear to you my patience is exhausted. Draw your sword and defend yourself.”

“Have patience a moment longer, monsieur,” said the regent, raising his hand. “You do not seem to fully understand the situation. Outside the secret door by which you entered a dozen of my guards are waiting, with orders to arrest you or to kill you should you resist them. In the antechamber there another dozen are stationed, whom a single cry would bring to my assistance.”

“But I should still have time to kill you, monsieur,” cried Richelieu.

“Perhaps,” said the regent, calmly; “but I believe, nevertheless, that I could hold you off for the few seconds it would require them to burst open the door. Ah,” he continued, as though seeing me for the first time, “here is M. de Brancas. Good-evening, monsieur. I did not think that I should see you again so soon. Did you give M. le Duc the message I intrusted to you?”

“No, monsieur,” I answered, and it seemed to me that we were cutting a very poor figure in face of the regent’s easy nonchalance.

“You did wrong,” he said. “It would, perhaps, have saved him from this trap, into which he came without knowing the danger.”

“What was this message?” asked Richelieu, disdainfully.

“Simply, monsieur,” answered the regent, coolly, “that the next time I held you in my hands I should not let you go until your head and shoulders had parted company.”

A low groan from the princess made Richelieu start.

“Do not concern yourself, I beg of you, Charlotte,” he cried. “These are but empty vaporings, believe me. It seems to me that at present I am not in this man’s power, but he in mine,” and with a movement swift as lightning his sword was at the regent’s breast. “If you so much as move a muscle, monsieur,” he said, “I swear to you upon my honor that I will drive this sword through your heart.”

The regent did not move, only his smile grew broader. I could not but admire the man.

“De Brancas,” cried Richelieu, “bind your scarf tightly over his mouth. Do not lift your hand, monsieur,” he continued warningly to the regent.

I did as he bade me, marvelling that Orleans did not show more spirit.

“Now off with his hat and cloak,” continued Richelieu.

I obeyed, and still the regent made no sign. I began to fear some further trap.

“What now, monsieur?” I asked.

“In faith, I do not know,” said Richelieu. “I might, indeed, don the cloak and hat, go out and order the guard away so that we could escape, but if we both leave, who will guard the regent? We might tie him, but it must needs be most securely.”

“Go, go, monsieur!” I cried, seizing his sword, but still keeping the point at the regent’s breast. “Put on the cloak and hat and go. I will stay, and I answer for it he will make no outcry.”

“Impossible,” said Richelieu. “I go and leave you, my friend?”

“Yes, yes,” I answered. “It is not with me a matter of life and death. Besides, with my sword at his heart I shall be able to make my own terms.”

“True,” said Richelieu, but he still hesitated and turned towards Mlle. de Valois.

“Ah, Charlotte,” he said, dropping on one knee before her and lifting her hand to his lips, “it seems that I am never to be permitted to tell you how I love you. But what is this?” he cried, looking up into her eyes to find them closed. “Oh, what has happened?”

Mlle. Dacour hastened to her.

“She has merely fainted, M. le Duc,” she said after a moment. “It is nothing. She will soon be herself again, I answer for it.”

“Thank God!” exclaimed the duke, and he covered with kisses the hand he held in his own. “I cannot go leaving her so.”

“I implore you to go, monsieur!” I entreated. “We do not know what instructions have been given the guards at the door. They may break in at any moment.”

“I yield,” murmured Richelieu, and he picked up the regent’s cloak and wrapped it about him; “but this is the last time that I will run away. I shall take horse for Bayonne,” he continued. “With my regiment I shall be safe. They would go to hell for me.”

But I looked at him gloomily, for I saw that even in that disguise his lithe, upright figure bore little resemblance to the shorter and stouter form of the regent.

“I fear the guards will suspect you, monsieur,” I said. “The disguise is a poor one.”

“So be it!” cried the duke, flinging the cloak and hat from him and picking up his own. “I will go without disguise, and trust to my sword to win me passage.” He placed his hand at his side, and remembered that I had his sword pressed against the regent’s heart. I drew my own with my other hand, and presenting it to the prisoner’s throat, handed Richelieu his own.

“Nay, wait a moment, M. le Duc,” cried Mlle. Dacour, as he started towards the door; “there is another way.”

“And unguarded?” he asked, pausing.

“I believe so. Come,” and she led the way towards the apartment in the rear of that in which we were.

“Adieu, de Brancas,” said Richelieu, pausing on the threshold. “If you suffer for this I will bring all Brittany to your rescue,” and he was gone.

I glanced at Orleans, but he made no sign. What new trap was he preparing that he should sit here so contentedly? I strained my ears for the clash of arms or for any outcry which would tell of the discovery of the fugitive, but none came. The moments passed.

“He must be safe by this time,” I murmured.

“That being the case, let us put an end to this farce,” said the regent, speaking quite distinctly through the scarf which encircled his head, and putting up his hand, he tore the scarf away. My sword quivered in my hand, yet I had never killed a man but in fair fight and my heart failed me now. “Come, M. de Brancas,” he continued, calmly, reading my thought in my face, “put down your sword. Did you think that I should have sat quiet here so obligingly had I desired to detain the duke? Surely, you gave me credit for more spirit, monsieur?”

“Then there was a trap?” I stammered, though not surprised at this confirmation of my suspicions.

“Well, not precisely,” and the regent smiled. “But here is Mlle. Dacour, who may have some news for you.”

She entered as he spoke and cast an alarmed and astonished glance at my lowered sword and the regent’s smiling face.

“The duke is safe, is he not?” I cried, alarmed in my turn.

“I believe so,” she answered. “I let him out by the little door into the Rue de Richelieu. There was no guard at the door and apparently we were unobserved. I watched him until he turned into the Rue St. Honoré and mingled with the crowd. Then I closed the door and returned.”

“Come,” said Orleans, rising, “you see that your friend is safe, de Brancas, and that you have again outwitted me. Make your adieux to Mlle. Dacour and leave her to attend to my daughter. Come with me. I have two words to say to you,” and he picked up his hat and cloak and walked towards the door.

“Oh, what does he mean?” whispered Louise, clutching at my sleeve, her eyes dark with terror. “Does he mean to do you harm, Jean?”

“That one word would repay me for it all,” I said, looking down with infinite love into that sweet, upturned face. “But I do not think so, Louise. In faith, I believe it is he who has outwitted us this evening, and not we who have outwitted him. But, oh, my life,” I whispered, pressing her to me, “you care a little, then?”

“Go, go!” she said, pushing me towards the door. “Do not keep him waiting. Do not make him angry, if he be not already so,” and she gave me one glance that made my heart leap and closed the door upon me. Something of my joy must have appeared in my face, for the regent, who was standing just outside, looked at me and smiled quizzically, but said nothing. I glanced about with astonishment, for there was not a single guard in sight.

He noticed my glance and smiled yet more broadly, but still kept silence. Motioning me to follow him, he led the way to the same room where he had given me audience but a few hours before.

“Sit down, M. de Brancas,” he said, throwing himself into the large chair which he had occupied in the afternoon. “Do you know,” he continued, looking at me with a smile, “I greatly enjoy adventures such as that of this evening. They give tone to the nerves and prove that not all men are cowards. In times of peace, such as these, it is often difficult to decide who is brave and who is not. In faith, if our treasury were not so depleted I believe I would risk a little war just for the pleasure of settling the question in regard to a few people about whom I am undecided. I already know where to place you, monsieur,” and I reddened at the compliment. “But,” he continued, and he changed his tone suddenly, “I dare say you and Richelieu believed you were executing a very clever little coup this evening. You reminded me of nothing so much as of that ridiculous Sganerelle in M. Molière’s ‘L’École des Maris,’ who while opposing his adversary with all his might in reality plays into his hand.”

“I confess, M. le Duc,” I said, “that I am still somewhat in the dark.”

“No doubt,” he laughed. “Come, I will lay the cards on the table for the sheer pleasure of looking at them myself. Did you really believe me so anxious to deprive Richelieu of his head?”

“You certainly seemed violent enough, monsieur,” I said.

“Ah, well, and I should have kept my word under certain conditions. But I am not of a blood-thirsty humor, and all I desired was to get Richelieu out of the way because he interferes with certain of my plans, as you know. Now, at Bayonne he will be quite as powerless to interfere with me as in the grave. Three hundred leagues is a long distance, monsieur.”

“Ah, ah!” I cried, a light beginning to break in upon me.

“Well,” continued the regent, “I knew very well that he would attempt to regain Paris, for I suspected to-night’s rendezvous, monsieur, as I suspect a great many other things,” and he glanced at me in a way which made me wonder if the Cellamare conspiracy was really such a profound secret as the conspirators believed. “Consequently I gave orders to his guards not to press him too closely should he attempt to escape, and I prepared a trap for him here. He was followed from the moment he entered Paris until he disappeared through M. de Mazarin’s private entrance below there. You do not seem to recognize the fact that I have a well-organized police department, monsieur, the best that the world has ever seen. I had resolved this: If Richelieu could escape from this trap and set out for Bayonne as I expected, I should make no great resistance. If he could not escape, he should die.”

The last words were uttered in a voice that chilled me.

“As you may guess,” continued the regent, “I was not sorry when he carried out his plan of escape, for I believe that now he will really go to Bayonne, and he cannot return from there in time to interfere with me. He is a popular and powerful man, and while I should not have hesitated in sending him to the block, it would have made me new enemies, whom I could ill afford just at this time. Have you ever known what it is, M. de Brancas,” he asked, suddenly, “to be hooted and stoned through the streets?”

“No, monsieur,” I answered, surprised at the turn the conversation had taken and at the gloomy cloud which had descended upon the regent’s face.

“I have known what it is!” he exclaimed. “I, regent of France,—king in everything but name. I have been abominated, hissed, spat upon. Even now I am suspected, and Villeroi, the king’s governor, surrounds him with ridiculous precautions to keep me away from him. I am trying to turn the tide the other way; I am trying to make friends, hence I am lenient with you and with Richelieu. I do not know why I am telling you this,” he added in another tone, “only I admire brave men, whether they are with me or against me. That is all; forget this conversation and keep Richelieu from vexing me too far. You may go.”

I bowed and left the room with a dazed consciousness that I had seen a side of the man which the world knew little of, and as I threaded my way through the corridors and down the great staircase to the street I pondered upon it wonderingly. When I heard, afterwards, as I often did, of the excesses of the little suppers which he gave nearly every night in his apartment, I did not find it in my heart to blame him.

The increasing cold and the lateness of the hour had driven the people from the streets, and even the Rue St. Honoré was almost deserted as I emerged from the Palais Royal. I returned as I had come, casting a glance at the gloomy river as I crossed it, and was soon at the Hotel de Richelieu. Jacques admitted me, and told me that his master had secured a horse from the stables more than an hour before and was now well on the road to Bayonne.

I was glad to learn that Richelieu had indeed left Paris, for I had little hope that the regent would permit reasons of state to interfere with his personal inclinations should the duke provoke him further. Nor, indeed, had I much hope that Richelieu would remain at Bayonne, despite his knowledge of the regent’s purpose. Philip of Orleans was still in my mind as I went to bed, and as I dropped asleep I was compelled to admit that he was a greater man than I had thought.

CHAPTER XI
THE HOUSE IN THE RUE VILLEDOT

Paris, with its ever-changing crowds, its narrow, clamorous streets, its towering, tottering, dingy buildings, its contrasts of wealth and poverty, light and shade, had not yet ceased to astonish me. It was a wonderful place,—wonderful, at least, to me, who had known only Poitiers,—and I, who had sat in the chimney corner at home with mouth agape listening to the tales my grandfather—God rest his soul—was wont to tell of it, had during the first few days hastened from place to place,—from Notre Dame to the Place de Greve, from the Porte St. Denis to the Great Chatelet,—constructing anew the scenes which had made them all so famous, and delighted to find that they had remained unchanged with the changing years. For half a century the city had stood stagnant, the king choosing to lavish his money on his wars or his pleasures rather than in beautifying his capital, or sinking into his grave, his coffers empty, his subjects estranged, under the severe dominion of Madame de Maintenon. But I found it beautiful, and in the romance with which I clothed it forgot the uneven streets, the stenches of the ill-kept gutters, the danger from the tottering walls. It was to me a dream city, and, as in dreams, I used only one faculty in regarding it,—the imagination.

I awoke with its uproar in my ears, and gazed with interest from my window at the hurrying torrent of carriages and vehicles of every kind which filled the street from side to side and constantly threatened to engulf and overwhelm the foot passengers, hurled hither and thither by the ceaseless crush. I watched with apprehension the attempts of a pretty woman to cross the crowded roadway, and breathed a sigh of relief when I saw her safely over. A tap at the door brought me from the window, and I opened it to find Jacques bowing on the threshold.

“Good-morning, monsieur,” he said. “Is there anything you wish?”

“Nothing but breakfast, my dear Jacques,” I answered, heartily, for I had taken a liking to his pleasant face and admired the unquestioning way in which he carried out his master’s orders. “It will be served soon, I trust.”

“It is awaiting monsieur,” he said, and he led the way to the lower floor.

“Have you heard anything further from Richelieu?” I asked, when I had seated myself at the table and he was stationed behind my chair.

“Only a message from him this morning, asking if monsieur had arrived home safely, and stating that he himself had reached Limours without misadventure and would be at Blois to-night, where he would consider his future course.”

“Pray heaven that it take him on to Bayonne!” I said, fervently. “He is better away from Paris for a time.” But I had little hope that he would think of caution. “If you send a message to him,” I added, “tell him that I am quite safe and that he need have no concern on my account.” Yet I knew very well that it was not I but Mlle. de Valois who would bring him back to Paris.

The day was bright and warm and I left the house with a light heart. I reflected that I could do nothing better than call at the salon of Madame du Maine and renew my offer of service, but the day was not yet far advanced, and I lingered upon the quays, where a thousand noises mingled in one indescribable uproar which fascinated me. Boats were discharging their cargoes at the landing-places, a row of boys sat upon the piers fishing, the crowd eddied ceaselessly back and forth, and above all the din arose the cries of the street venders of vegetables, fruit, fish, milk, and I know not what, for their incomprehensible jargon, which I vainly endeavored to understand, gave me no clue to the wares they were selling. At every step there was a beggar, a blind man, or a street musician. The water-carriers, of whom I was told there were not less than twenty thousand in Paris, carried bells, which they rang with an ardor nothing seemed to diminish. Here was a woman selling oysters, which she carried in a huge hamper on her back; another was bent almost double under a great bundle of brooms; a third was selling flowers, which were displayed on a broad shallow basket strapped to her hips. Men were crying the most impossible things,—toy windmills, boot-laces, buckets, bellows, prints, and even rat-traps. Here was a tinker, carrying with him his fire of charcoal, his anvil, and all his tools; there a cobbler, who was sitting against the wall, in a corner out of harm’s way, mending a shoe. One fellow with a loud voice and a very red face endeavored to sell me a ticket in some lottery, and another offered me a bottle of magic ink, which would fade after a certain time and leave no trace behind it. He told me it was of especial value and in great demand for love-letters, since, after the second day, the writing would entirely disappear and so compromise no one. I laughed at him, and told him I had no use for his ink, since I had never in my life written a love-letter, whereat he showed me, with a great air of mystery, a wizard’s ring, which he was willing to part with for a pistole, and which he assured me would win me the love of any woman whose hand I might touch while I wore it. I inquired why it was that he was willing to sell so great a treasure, and he answered that it had made his life a burden to him, so closely and constantly was he pursued by the women who had fallen victims to the talisman. A crowd had gathered around us as we talked, and when I turned away, still laughing, he appealed to other of the listeners, and I doubt not managed to strike a bargain with one of them. I did not wait to see the conclusion of the matter, but struggled through the crowd, and with considerable effort gained the other side of the river, where I finally paused to take breath in the Rue des Poulies.

Nothing had astonished me so much in Paris as the height of the buildings, and I looked with interest at those about me. They straggled into the air six, seven, or eight stories, as though each successive generation, prohibited by the royal edict from building without the walls, had at last found a home by adding an extra story to the ancestral domiciles. The flood of houses, which had long before overwhelmed the walls of the old city, was fast piling up within the new walls as within a great reservoir, and another inundation of the surrounding country could not be far distant. Each house had its sign, projecting far into the street, and from every story protruded a spout, which, in rainy weather, precipitated torrents of dirty water upon the passers-by. The fronts of the houses were for the most part of wood and plaster and, where not concealed by bills, indescribably dirty. Many of them seemed on the point of falling down, and were saved from that fate only by leaning against their more fortunate neighbors. Bills and flaring posters were everywhere, bearing some piece of political satire or morsel of scandalous gossip.

I turned into the Rue St. Honoré, and was soon again in the midst of a tumult as great as that upon the quays, only here the crowd was more fashionable, and there were in consequence more beggars. I knew no one in it, so, unconsciously catching the spirit of the place, I hurried on past the Palais Royal, at which I cast a lingering glance, wondering if it would ever be my good fortune to join the throng of gayly dressed courtiers and enter boldly with them. Turning down the Rue St. Louis, I soon gained the Tuileries. The entrance to that portion of the palace, the Pavilion Marsan, occupied by Madame du Maine was almost deserted, but a lacquey who was lounging in the vestibule took in my name, and, returning in a moment, informed me that I was to enter. He led me to a small room at the left, where I found the duchess and Mlle. de Launay together, busily occupied in examining a vast number of formidable-looking papers.

“Enter, M. de Brancas,” cried the duchess, seeing me pause upon the threshold. “You are not intruding. In fact, you come most fortunately and just at the moment when Mlle. de Launay and I were wishing for some one like yourself, who could be trusted.”

“Thank you, madame,” I said. “I shall try to merit your trust,” and I entered and bowed to both the ladies. “I had scarcely expected to find you at work so early.”

“Ah! it seems to me that we never have time for repose,” exclaimed the duchess. “There is so much to be done and so few whom I can trust to do it. But tell me, monsieur, what has become of Richelieu? I have not seen him for an age.”

I related briefly the adventures of the duke and myself, taking care to say nothing of my last conversation with the regent, and adding that as Richelieu was en route for Bayonne, I believed it best for him to remain there for a time.

“Yes,” said the duchess, thoughtfully, when I had finished, “I believe so myself. The match will soon be applied here, and then he would have to be at Bayonne in any case. But this morning, M. de Brancas, I wish to ask your company for Mlle. de Launay, who has an errand to do which will not permit the use of a carriage and who finds it impossible to thread these crowded streets without an escort.”

“I shall be only too happy to be of service,” I answered, and at a sign from the duchess her companion withdrew to make ready for the street.

“You can judge to what straits we are reduced, monsieur,” continued madame, with a note of sadness and discouragement in her voice, the first I had ever heard there, “when I tell you that Mlle. de Launay is the only one there is to whom I can intrust missions which require a certain courage and finesse. There are many, it is true, who offer their services, but none upon whom I can rely as upon this girl.”

I could think of nothing to say that would not be mere banality, and as she busied herself carefully tying up a bundle of papers, I looked at her more attentively. I was not surprised to find her face pale and careworn, and I did not doubt that she was passing sleepless nights and harassing days in the endeavor to get all the threads of this conspiracy straightened out and properly arranged,—that she worked while others merely talked. Mlle. de Launay soon returned, and the duchess handed her the packet of papers which I had seen her arrange.

“You will find all the needed information there,” she said, “and remember that you cannot urge too strongly the need of haste. Every moment I fear that something will happen to render all our work useless. There, hasten,” she continued, dismissing us with a gesture, “and do not keep me waiting longer than necessary for your report.”

“We will not make ourselves unnecessarily conspicuous, monsieur,” said my companion, as we left the room, and she led the way along a wide hall running to the rear of the building. We descended into a small court, bounded on one side by a high wall and on the other by a row of buildings, and passed across this to a gate in the wall at the end. She opened the gate with a key she took from her pocket, and locked it after us. We found ourselves in a narrow little street which opened into the Rue de l’Echelle.

“Our mission is, then, a secret one?” I asked, as we entered this street.

“No, not just that,” answered the girl, smiling at me, “and yet it is well to be cautious. We are going to see a gentleman who lives in the Rue Villedot. I have been there many times. But there are always a dozen police spies hanging about the entrance to the Tuileries, and I avoid them when I can.”

“Mademoiselle,” I asked, suddenly, “the police department is well organized, is it not?”

“Splendidly,” she answered. “This man, Hérault, who is at the head of it, has a genius for the work, and no one is safe from him.”

“Do you think, then,” I continued, “that the plans of Madame du Maine are altogether unknown to him?”

“I can only hope so,” she said, and her face grew lined with anxiety. “Yet, even if he did suspect, that would not be enough. He cannot know the details of our plans, and without something more definite than suspicion even the regent would not dare raise his hand against a princess of the blood. We are hurrying our preparations forward as rapidly as we can, and hope to be the ones to strike the first blow. Everything depends upon that,” she added. “We have gone too far and the end is now too near to turn back, monsieur, or we might, perhaps, await a better time.”

“But success,—can you win success?” I persisted.

“It is certain,” and her face was alight with enthusiasm, “provided only we are undisturbed a single week longer.”

We had again reached the busy portion of the city, and the uproar drowned our voices. Besides, I had sufficient to think about in protecting my companion from the crowd of passing carriages.

“We must hasten,” she cried, suddenly, “or we shall be caught in the rain.”

I glanced at the sky and saw that she was right, for a bank of clouds from which came rumblings of distant thunder was every moment growing more threatening. We turned hurriedly down the Rue des Frondeurs, and in a moment had plunged into one of the irregular and squalid quarters of the city. But the girl went forward without hesitation and as though well acquainted with the road. We passed through a maze of short streets running in all directions, apparently at haphazard, and suddenly my companion paused at a corner house.

“This is the place,” she said. “The man I have come to see lives on the second floor. That is his window you see up there. Do you await me here, M. de Brancas. I will be back in a moment,” and without waiting for me to answer, she plunged into the dark and narrow entrance.

I glanced up and down the street apprehensively, for her statement as to the efficiency of the police department, added to my own vague fears, had filled me with alarm, but we were seemingly unobserved. A crowd of poorly dressed people was passing in either direction, and a rabble of children was playing in the gutter in the middle of the street, but no one paused to cast a second glance at me. The darkened sky had thrown the street into a gloom which rendered the sagging houses threatening and terrible, an effect which an occasional flash of lightning served to heighten. The moments passed, and I paced impatiently up and down before the door, wondering what had detained the girl. I had just determined to mount the stairs and find out for myself when I heard a crash of glass above me and a scream for help in a woman’s voice, which I recognized only too plainly.

In an instant I was through the doorway and stumbling up the dirty staircase with drawn sword, cursing the darkness which delayed my progress, I arrived at the first landing and paused a moment to listen, but heard nothing. I reflected that the window she had shown me was on the floor above, and mounted cautiously, not knowing what the danger might be towards which I was advancing. Again I paused to listen, but still heard nothing. I strained my ears, and in a moment fancied I heard a moan. I felt before me and found a door. I applied my ear to the keyhole and heard a second moan, which could not this time be mistaken. With a bound I flung my body against the door. It gave way with a crash and I was precipitated into the room beyond. By an effort I kept my feet, and at a glance I saw in one corner a man bending over the prostrate form of my companion.

He turned a startled face towards me as I entered and half started to rise, but I was upon him ere he could draw his weapon, and ran him through by the mere force of my onslaught. He fell like a log, but at the moment I turned to the prostrate girl I heard hurrying feet upon the stair without, and I sprang towards the door, my sword gleaming red in my hand, to meet this new danger.

CHAPTER XII
A CONFERENCE WITH CELLAMARE

“What have we here?” cried a voice from the staircase. I could perceive no one because of the darkness, but I knew from the accent that the speaker was not a Frenchman.

“Enter, monsieur,” I said, realizing that I could do nothing against an antagonist who remained invisible. “Enter, and we shall doubtless be able to arrive at an explanation.”

“Ah, ah!” cried the voice again, “but I do not know you, monsieur. Stay; do not move,” he continued, as I advanced a step towards the door. “I have you covered with two pistols, and I desire you to remain where you are for the present. I might miss with one, but I should surely kill you with the other. Now, pray tell me what you are doing in this room.”

“I heard a lady cry out in distress,” I answered, reflecting rapidly that the statement of this simple fact could compromise no one and that it was necessary to gain time. “I ran up the stairs, broke open the door, and cut down a scoundrel whom I found choking her.”

“And where is this lady, may I ask?” inquired the voice in an anxious tone.

“In the corner there, and I doubt not in great need of attention. But I am growing weary of this questioning, monsieur,” and I made another step towards the door.

“One question more,” said the man. “Did you accompany the lady hither?”

“Yes,” I answered, without hesitation.

“Then everything is as it should be,” he cried, “and you have rendered me a great service. Come, put down your sword as I put up my pistols. It was I whom the lady came to see. You will believe this when I tell you that she is Mlle. de Launay and that she comes from Madame du Maine,” and as he spoke he entered the room, his pistols in his belt. I saw him to be a man between fifty and sixty years of age, with a soldierly carriage and haughty bearing which the dark cloak he wore could not conceal. I was not surprised, therefore, when he threw off his cloak and disclosed beneath it a handsome cavalier’s dress. His moustache, which described a straight line across his upper lip, was slightly tinged with gray, and from the darkness of his skin and the fire in his eyes I judged him to be a Spaniard or Italian.

“The devil,” I thought, “have I stumbled into another love-affair? It seems to me that I have enough on my hands already,” but I continued my survey of the new-comer without saying a word.

“Come, monsieur,” he said, with a smile, “it is evident that you do not know me. Before I can tell you who I am I must ask you one other question. You are, perhaps, acquainted with certain plans of Madame du Maine?”

“Perhaps,” I answered.

“And you were aware that Mlle. de Launay was to leave some papers here?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“But you did not know for whom the papers were intended,—is it not so?”

“That is so, monsieur.”

“Well, I will tell you for whom they were intended. They were intended for Antonio Giudice, Duke of Giovennazzo and Prince of Cellamare, ambassador of Spain at the court of Versailles. In other words, monsieur, they were intended for myself.”

I had for a moment suspected what was coming, and it needed no second glance to tell me that he was speaking the truth.

“Ah, M. le Prince,” I cried, sending my sword into its sheath, “I am indeed glad to see you! But who, then, was the fellow whom I cut down?”

Cellamare bent over the man and looked into his face.

“’Tis a servant of mine!” he exclaimed. “He came to me with excellent recommendations a month ago and I employed him. I sent him on here to inform mademoiselle that I should be a few moments late.”

“Doubtless a police spy, then,” I said. “He is not dead, and perhaps we may get something more out of him. But come, let us close the door and see what injury has been done her.”

Cellamare sprang to the door and soon had it in place again, while I kneeled beside her body and placed my hand above her heart. I was overjoyed to feel it still faintly beating. Stooping closer, I saw that she was unconscious, and some livid marks about her neck indicated that the brute had been choking her.

“Good,” I said, “I believe that she has only fainted. Could you procure some water and some wine, monsieur?”

Cellamare went into an adjoining room, and in a moment returned with a glass of water and a bottle of wine. I dipped my handkerchief in the water and bathed her face. In a moment she opened her eyes.

“Ah, that is better,” I said, supporting her head with my arm. “Now drink some of this, mademoiselle,” and I filled a second glass with wine and held it to her lips. Mechanically she swallowed it, and I saw the color returning to her face.

“Oh, what has happened?” she whispered. “Where am I?”

“Quite safe, I assure you, mademoiselle,” answered Cellamare, and between us we assisted her to her feet.

She looked at him a moment.

“Ah, yes, I recollect,” she cried, suddenly. “I was bringing you the papers. Where are the papers?” and her hands flew to her waist in an agony of apprehension, which I fully shared. “They are safe,” she said, and she drew from the folds of her dress the packet of papers which I had seen Madame du Maine give her. “Take them, M. le Prince,” she added, handing them to him, “and now tell me what has happened.”

“Do you tell us first what happened to you, mademoiselle,” I suggested, “then we can better understand the story.”

“Well,” she said, quickly, “when I left M. de Brancas at the foot of the stairs,” Cellamare bowed to me as she mentioned my name, “I ran quickly up and knocked at the door of this room. A man whom I did not know opened it. He said he had been sent to meet me by M. de Cellamare. He told me to enter, and closed the door behind me. He continued that M. de Cellamare would not be able to keep the appointment, and that I was to leave any papers I might have for him and he would get them later in the day. Something in the man’s manner frightened me, and I replied that I should not leave the papers, but would make another appointment with M. le Prince. I started to leave the room, when he sprang upon me. I threw him off and rushed to the window, broke it, and screamed for help, hoping that M. de Brancas would hear me. At that instant I felt strong fingers on my throat and knew no more.”

I related briefly my share in the adventure, and Cellamare repeated what he had already told me in reference to the stranger.

“Perhaps he can tell us something more,” I suggested, as Cellamare concluded, and I dragged the prostrate man to the wall and propped him against it. He groaned as I did so. “Ah, come,” I said, “he is not dead yet. Let us see where my sword went through him.” I stripped his doublet from his shoulder and found the blood welling from a wound which had undoubtedly pierced his breast, but which was yet some distance above his heart. “This will not kill him if his blood be good,” I remarked, and bathed the wound with my wet handkerchief. The bleeding slowly ceased and I tied the fellow’s scarf tightly over it. “Let us see, now, if we cannot bring him to consciousness,” and prying his teeth apart, I forced a little wine between his lips. He groaned again, and this time opened his eyes. He seemed to comprehend at once where he was, for he glanced from me to Cellamare and back again, and grew even more livid, if such a thing were possible.

“Do not fear,” I said, “we are not going to harm you further, and you will soon get well of this little wound if you are properly cared for. Now we will care for you, but only on one condition.”

His eyes questioned me.

“The condition is,” I continued, answering their glance, “that you tell us for whom you wished to secure these papers. Do you agree?”

He looked at me again and then at Cellamare, but there was no relenting.

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Then who sent you here?”

“Hérault.” We all started at the word, for if Hérault suspected, there was no telling what might happen.

“He told you to enter the employ of M. de Cellamare?”

“Yes.”

“And provided you with recommendations?”

“Yes.”

“For what purpose?”

“To watch him.”

“But why?”

“I do not know. I was to obtain possession, if I could, of any papers or correspondence he might receive from Madame du Maine.”

Again we exchanged a glance.

“And Hérault told you that these papers might be brought by Mlle. de Launay?”

“Yes.”

“What were you to do with the papers when you had once obtained them?”

“I was to leave them at a certain place.”

“Where?”

The fellow hesitated, but a glance at our faces told him that we would take no equivocation.

“With the concierge of the house at the corner of the Rue Jean St. Denis and the Rue de Beauvais,” he answered, at last.

“Have you taken any papers there as yet?”

“No. This afternoon was the first chance I had to get any.”

I paused to consider.

“This man can tell us nothing further,” I said, after a moment. “Let us put him out of the way for a time.”

“There is a bed in the next room,” said Cellamare.

We lifted him as gently as we could and laid him on the bed. Then we returned to the larger room and carefully closed the door between the two.

“It seems to me that we are lost,” and Cellamare threw himself into a chair, his face dark with disappointment.

“Oh, do not say so, monsieur!” and Mlle. de Launay, who had been a silent spectator of the foregoing scene, wrung her hands in anguish.

“But if Hérault knows,” protested the prince.

“Perhaps he does not know,” I answered. “Perhaps he only suspects, without knowing exactly what to suspect. He has doubtless observed that many couriers have passed between the Spanish embassy and the court of Madrid. He has, perhaps, been told that Madame du Maine and M. de Cellamare exchange many communications. He suspects something, he knows not what, and he is trying to find out more. This in itself would not be very serious. Only,” I added, “we must prevent his finding out anything more.”

“You may be right, monsieur,” and Cellamare’s face brightened a little. “But to prevent his finding out anything more,—that will be a difficult task.”

“He must be thrown on the wrong scent.”

“How do you mean?”

“You heard what disposition was to be made of the papers?”

“Yes.”

“Well, to-night a package of papers will be left for M. Hérault at this house in the Rue de Beauvais. They will be papers from Madame du Maine to yourself. Only, they will have no connection with this enterprise, but with something quite different. In a word, they will be papers prepared expressly for the eye of M. Hérault. You understand?”

“Perfectly,” and Cellamare’s eyes sparkled with their old brilliancy. “The plan is admirable, monsieur; permit me to compliment you.”

I bowed.

“Perhaps monsieur could suggest some subject upon which correspondence would be necessary, and which would yet not have the air of a conspiracy,” I continued.

“I have it!” cried Mlle. de Launay. “Let us prepare a lot of petitions, papers, and memorials praying the King of Spain to intercede with the regent to annul the decree which shuts the Duke du Maine from the throne. This would be a subject requiring no little correspondence, and at the same time would be nothing concerning which the regent could take action.”

“Excellent,” I said; “but these papers must be prepared at once, mademoiselle.”

“The duchess already has a thousand such,” and the girl smiled. “She has been preparing them for many months. It will be necessary only to tie them together. But how shall we get them into Hérault’s hands?”

“I will deliver them,” I said. “Nobody knows me in Paris.”

“Good. That is arranged, then,” said Cellamare. “Now as to these papers which you have just given me, mademoiselle. Let us see what they contain.”

At that moment there was a blinding flash of lightning, and the rain, which had been long delayed, came down in torrents. The room grew very dark, and Cellamare arose and lighted two candles which stood on the table.

“These papers, M. le Prince,” said Mlle. de Launay, as he sat down again, “contain a detailed account of the aid we may expect in France. Let me have them a moment.”

Cellamare shot a questioning glance in my direction, which the girl intercepted.

“We have already had sufficient proof of the fidelity of M. de Brancas,” she said.

“True!” he cried, heartily. “Pardon me, I pray you, monsieur.”

“In affairs of this kind,” I said, with a smile, “it is necessary for one to be cautious. I am quite ready to withdraw,” and I arose from my chair.

“Stay, I beg of you,” and Cellamare also arose and pressed me back. “Your advice will be invaluable.”

The girl opened the packet and drew out one of the papers.

“This,” she said, “is a statement of the forces which will muster to our support in Brittany. As you see, we can count upon nearly all the noble houses. Here is the name of each of them and the number of troops each can muster.”

“Good,” said Cellamare, taking the paper and looking it over carefully. “This promises at least eight thousand men.”

She opened another paper.

“Here is a statement from Bayonne,” she said. “The town will be opened to the Spanish troops without resistance. The regiment quartered there, which is commanded by the Duc de Richelieu, will join the Spanish army, and the town has also promised to raise a regiment.”

“A good point,” and Cellamare scanned this paper as he had the first. “This will give us a stronghold on the border of France, through which we can advance upon Paris. And two regiments are not to be laughed at.”

Mlle. de Launay opened a third paper.

“This is a statement of de Mesmes, president of parliament,” she said. “He has gained to our interests a majority of the members, and so soon as we strike a blow the parliament will declare for us and will instruct the citizen soldiery of Paris to take up arms in our behalf.”

“Ah, ah!” and Cellamare’s eyes were sparkling. “This is best of all. We shall be able to strike the regency right at its heart.”

The girl doubtless felt the enthusiasm of the Spaniard, but she preserved an admirable composure. As for me, I judged it best to use my ears and not my tongue.

“This is a statement from Cardinal de Polignac,” she continued, opening yet another paper. “It was he, you may remember, who in 1797 caused the Prince de Conti to be chosen King of Poland, although, unfortunately, he never ascended the throne. Still, the Poles idolized him and they remember Polignac. Five thousand lances are assembling at the frontier and will be ready to follow him into France in a week’s time. They are concentrating at two points, Arlon and Landau.”

“Nothing could be better!” cried Cellamare, and as for myself, I confess that I felt slipping from me one by one the doubts I had entertained as to the success of the conspiracy.

“The other papers are of less importance,” she concluded, “though important enough in themselves. These, for instance, are pledges of support from the Marquis de Pompadour and the Marquis de Laval, who will bring us the united strength of the Montmorencies. Here are some papers from the Abbé Brigaut, who has attended to much of the correspondence for us, assisted by the Chevalier de Menil, and who assures us that half the remaining nobility of the kingdom, who have been insulted by the regent, will be with us. And here are a dozen others of the same kind.”

“All of which would have made interesting reading for the regent,” I remarked, dryly, and Cellamare nodded thoughtfully.

“And now, M. le Prince, what have you done?” demanded the girl, with blazing eyes. “Madame du Maine wishes me to urge haste above everything. To-day’s affair shows we have no time to lose.”

“I received a letter this morning from Cardinal Alberoni, prime minister of Spain,” answered Cellamare, “and he assures me that the armies of Spain will be ready to cross the frontiers of France in a week’s time.”

“We shall, then, send out instructions to all our allies to strike the first blow one week from to-day. Do you agree?”

“One week from to-day let it be,” said Cellamare, his hands trembling with emotion.

“This is the fifteenth of December. One week from to-day will be the twenty-second. At seven in the morning, then, let Philip of Spain be proclaimed regent of France. Do you your part, M. le Prince, and Madame du Maine will do hers.” I swear she was the coolest of the three.

“It is agreed,” and Cellamare bowed.

“Come, monsieur,” said mademoiselle to me, “let us hasten back and inform the duchess of our decision.”

“But what of our wounded friend in the room there?” I asked.

“I will attend to him,” said Cellamare, “and see that he is kept in a place where he can do no harm.”

“All is arranged then; come,” and Mlle. de Launay hurried from the room and down the stairs.

The clocks were striking three as we reached the street. The sky had cleared and the sun was shining, but the rainfall had been very heavy. The streets were filled with water almost to the houses, and the wide gutters in the middle had been converted into great turgid streams. Across these planks were thrown here and there, forming rude bridges for the accommodation of pedestrians. We picked our way along the slippery stones near the houses, my companion choosing a circuitous route which finally brought us again to the Rue des Frondeurs, and along it to the Rue St. Honoré. Here the floods of water from the neighboring streets had concentrated into a perfect river, through which a continuous stream of carriages splashed, making it impossible to keep the bridges in position.

“Oh, what shall we do?” she cried, as we stopped at the edge of this torrent. “We must not remain here. How are we to cross?”

“I see only one way, mademoiselle,” I answered, and before she could protest I caught her up in my arms and was splashing through the muddy water. Just as I reached the middle of it a passing carriage barred my progress. An irresistible attraction drew my eyes to the window, and I saw there the face of Louise Dacour. She was looking into my eyes, a disdainful smile just curving her lips. I bowed to her, but she made no sign of recognition, and in an instant had disappeared.

CHAPTER XIII
AT THE THÉÂTRE-FRANÇAIS

I left Mlle. de Launay at the Tuileries, promising to call at eight o’clock for the papers, and returned to the Rue des Saints Pères in no very happy frame of mind. Why Mlle. Dacour had chosen to ignore me was a problem which I tried in vain to solve, and preoccupied with this mystery, I pushed my way through the crowd without seeing it. Jacques had dinner awaiting my return, and after changing my clothes, which had been sadly bespattered in the passage of the Rue St. Honoré, I hastened to appease my hunger. When I was once more alone before the fire with a bottle of wine at my elbow, I turned again to the solution of the problem. But in all those sweet perplexities of woman’s nature I was the merest novice,—though I have since grown wiser by dint of much careful study,—and I puzzled my head to no purpose. Twilight came while I sat there musing, and Jacques entered with the candles.

“Has monsieur decided where he will spend the evening?” he asked.

“Why, no,” I said. “I have an engagement at eight o’clock, but ’twill keep me no longer than half an hour.”

“Permit me to remind monsieur that M. le Duc has always places reserved at the Opéra and the Comédie, and that these are at monsieur’s service.”

“A thousand thanks, Jacques, for your thoughtfulness!” I cried. “And what is the programme for this evening?”

“The Opéra will be closed, as a new piece is in preparation there, but at the Comédie will be produced M. Voltaire’s tragedy of ‘Œdipe,’ which has created such a furore since its first representation a month ago.”

In fact, I had myself seen many of the bills announcing the tragedy and had heard some talk of it on the streets.

“I shall go,” I said. “Thanks, again, for your thoughtfulness, Jacques.”

“I will see that M. le Duc’s place is at the disposal of monsieur,” he answered, and withdrew.

I looked over my wardrobe with care and selected the most elaborate costume I possessed, as best suited to the fashionable world of the theatre into which I was about to venture. I heard seven o’clock striking as I finished my toilet, and knowing that I had no time to lose, I buckled on my sword and left the house, declining a carriage which Jacques offered me, since my first errand must be done on foot. It was not yet eight o’clock when I reached the Tuileries and entered the salon, but the usual crowd had already assembled, and several of the men bowed to me as I passed. One of these was the Chevalier de Rey, who stopped me for a moment.

“Has Richelieu left the city, monsieur?” he asked.

“He has joined his regiment at Bayonne,” I answered.

“Ah,” said de Rey, with a smile of intelligence, “the time, then, is not far distant,” and he turned away with his news to a neighboring group.

I continued on my way down the room, and met Mlle. de Launay as she entered.

“You are prompt, M. de Brancas,” she said. “Here are the papers,” and she handed me a packet resembling in outward appearance at least that she had given to Cellamare in the afternoon. “I fancy they will keep Hérault, Dubois, and the regent busy for a time,” she added, with a smile.

“I trust so, at all events,” I answered, as I took the papers.

“Wait a moment, monsieur,” she continued, placing her hand lightly upon my arm as I turned away. “Madame appreciates thoroughly your share in this afternoon’s adventure and charged me expressly to thank you in her name. She realizes that but for you our plans would even now be in the hands of the regent.”

“I was glad to be of service,” I said, simply, “and hope to prove this many times within the next few weeks.”

“I believe you, monsieur,” and she looked into my eyes. “Madame and myself both feel that we can trust you. We are happy to have found such an ally.”

I thanked her again and took my leave, as Polignac came to us and engaged her in conversation, for I was ill at ease. It seemed to me that I was being dragged into the conspiracy much deeper than I had bargained for, and yet I saw no way to extricate myself, however much I might wish to do so. And I realized more vividly than ever that I was not made for intrigue.

I was anxious to have the errand done, and I hurried from the place and made my way to the Rue Jean St. Denis, down which I turned until I reached the Rue de Beauvais. Here an unforeseen difficulty confronted me, for though I knew I was to leave the papers with the concierge of the corner house, I did not know which corner. As the Rue Jean St. Denis ended here, there were only two corners to choose from, and I looked at these with attention. The building on the right was a handsome edifice of four stories, extending down the Rue de Beauvais to the Rue Fromenteau, and along the Rue Jean St. Denis a corresponding distance. I reflected that Hérault would not be likely to choose the concierge of such an imposing edifice as a depository for his papers, and turned my attention to the opposite side. The corner house here was a small one, stuck in, as it were, to fill an angle left by the two adjoining buildings. It was only two stories in height, the ground floor being occupied by a cabaret which seemed well patronized. I decided at once that this was the place, and, pulling my hat down over my eyes and wrapping my cloak about my face, I approached it.

I looked about, but could discover no sign of a concierge, and turned the corner into the Rue de Beauvais. Here fortune favored me, for I found a little court which gave entrance to the interior of the building. In one corner of this court was a hut of one room, with a large window commanding the entrance. By the candle within I saw a little old man sitting at a table, apparently asleep. I opened the door.

“Are you the concierge?” I asked, touching him with my foot.

He awoke with a start and sat blinking at me.

“I asked if you are the concierge,” I repeated.

“The concierge?” he stammered. “Yes, yes. What is it, monsieur?”

“You sometimes receive papers and letters, do you not?”

“Sometimes, monsieur.”

“And what do you do with them?”

“I give them to the person for whom they are intended, monsieur,” and he smiled cunningly.

“All right,” I said. “I see you are my man. These must be delivered to that person at once. Tell me the first letter of his name.”

“H, monsieur.”

“Good. Here are the papers,” and I gave him the packet and turned to leave.

“But your name, monsieur?” he cried.

“He will know from whom they come,” I answered. “It is always safer not to mention names,” and I hurried from the place, for I feared that one of Hérault’s agents might arrive while I was there. I met no one, however, and turning up the Rue du Chantre, soon reached the Palais Royal.

The Théâtre-Français occupied a portion of the left wing, and the entrance was crowded with gayly dressed people. Thanks to Jacques, who had been before me, I had no difficulty in securing the place reserved for Richelieu at the right of the stage, and I looked about me with no little interest and some astonishment. The hall was not very large and but indifferently lighted. Two rows of boxes extended in a semicircle around it, encircling the pit, which was without seats. It was already filled with a crush of people, who were compelled to stand on tiptoe and look over each other’s shoulders to catch a glimpse of the stage. The stage itself appeared to be a mere strip of planks in the midst of this sea of people, for on either side of it were four rows of seats, one above the other, enclosed in a gilt railing, and at the back thirty or forty people were standing, through whom the actors must force their way in order to reach the front. As was inevitable in such a multitude, there was a perfect babel of conversation. Most of the boxes were still empty, but from the pit came an uproar indescribable. The din was increased by dealers in lemonade and sweetmeats, who pushed their way through the crowd crying their wares.

The boxes filled gradually, most of them being occupied by elegantly attired ladies, many of whom were masked. My attention was attracted by a party of especially distinguished appearance which entered the box across from mine. It consisted of three ladies, all wearing masks.

The ringing of a bell drew my eyes to the stage, and those who had come only to see the assembling of the audience withdrew and received their money back as they passed out. A boy snuffed the row of candles which served as footlights, and the bell tapped a second time. Something like stillness fell upon the house, and I saw two gentlemen attired in the mode of Paris, with swords at their sides, precisely as had every gentleman in the audience, break a way through the crowd at the back of the stage and advance to the front. One, so the playbill told me, was the Prince of Eubœa, and the other his friend Dimas, and the opening couplet was ringing in the air,—

“Philoctète, est-ce vous? Quel coup affreux du sort

Dans ces lieux empestés vous fait chercer la mort?”

From that instant I forgot the audience and no longer saw the anachronism which gave this Greek tragedy all the appointments of a French contemporary drama. I heard only the majesty of the lines, as the story moved on without interruption to the tragedy which was its climax. Thunders of applause interrupted the actors at every moment. The audience found in the first scene a reference to the king, then only eight years old, and to the regent. These were clapped to the echo, and the actors were recalled at the end of the scene.

The act once over, the hubbub of voices arose again, and I had leisure to look about me. Unconsciously my eyes wandered to the box opposite, and I started as I fancied I saw one of the masked ladies make a motion to me with her fan. I told myself I must be mistaken, but a moment later the signal was repeated. I arose from my chair and looked questioningly at her, still incredulous of my good fortune. She nodded her head and again beckoned with her fan. This time there was no mistaking her meaning, and I hurried from my box and made my way through the crowd as rapidly as possible to the other side of the theatre. With fast-beating heart I tapped at the door of the box where the three ladies sat.

“Enter, monsieur,” said a low voice, which I recognized at once as that of Mlle. de Valois. “Ah, M. de Brancas,” she continued, holding out her hand, “you are welcome. But I am ashamed of you, sir. Do you always compel a lady to give you three invitations?”

“It was because I could not believe in my good fortune, mademoiselle,” I cried. “Had I known who you were, I fear I should not have waited for even one invitation.”

“I see my mask is no disguise, monsieur,” laughed the princess, “for you seem to know me now. Pray tell me, do you know these other ladies?”

“I know Mlle. Dacour,” I answered, bowing to one of the other two, who remained silent, apparently absorbed in watching the crowd in the pit.

“And how do you know that?” she asked.

“By the beating of my heart, mademoiselle,” I answered.

The princess laughed merrily.

“A pretty compliment, upon my word,” she cried. “Come, Louise, are you not going to give M. de Brancas your hand to kiss as a reward?”

“M. de Brancas is too fond of kissing hands,” she retorted, without looking at me. “Let him find others, as he has doubtless already done.”

Mlle. de Valois glanced at my lugubrious face and burst into another peal of laughter.

“It is too amusing,” she cried. “But first, monsieur, let me introduce you to this other lady, concerning whom your heart tells you nothing,—my sister, Mlle. de Chartres.”

I bowed to the lady, who was apparently some years older than Mlle. de Valois, and who smiled at me graciously. The princess was still laughing.

“Oh, come, M. de Brancas,” she said, “put off that melancholy air. You should rejoice rather than despair, for, do you know, Louise is doing you the honor of being jealous of you. This afternoon we were out driving, and in the Rue St. Honoré who should we see but M. de Brancas wading across the street and with a young and pretty woman held very affectionately in his arms. It made my blood leap and I was for cheering you from the carriage window, but Louise held me back, and in a moment you were gone. I thought it fine, but she said it was disgraceful, and I nearly died with laughing at her indignant face.”

“Oh, this is too much!” cried Mlle. Dacour, starting from her seat. “I will not remain here to be insulted in this manner.”

“Oh, do not go, mademoiselle!” I implored.

“Yes, stay, Louise,” said the princess. “I promise not to tease you further. Besides,” she added, mischievously, “M. de Brancas doubtless has an explanation to offer, and perhaps he was not holding her so affectionately as I imagined.”

I would have told them at once that it had been a question of necessity and not at all of affection, but at that moment the bell rang and the second act began. I forgot my fair companions in the interest of the tragedy. The laughing voice of Mlle. de Valois aroused me.

“Ah, M. de Brancas,” she said, “it is evident that you have never before seen the ‘Œdipe.’ Here, sit beside me. If you are very good and answer my questions nicely I shall let you sit beside Louise, and you will have only yourself to blame if you do not make peace with her. She is dying of curiosity to learn the lady’s name. Have you heard from Richelieu?” she asked in a lower tone.

“I have heard only that he is on the road to Bayonne,” I answered.

“And you think he should remain there?”

“I believe it would be best for the present, mademoiselle.”

“Ah, but, M. de Brancas,” she said, “suppose you were Richelieu and I Louise Dacour. Would you remain at Bayonne? Do not answer me, I see in your face that you would not. Listen. Richelieu will be in Paris to-morrow night.”

“To-morrow night,” I gasped.

“Yes. He will doubtless go first to his hotel, where you will meet him. So soon as you see him give him this note,” and she handed me a little perfumed missive. “The note, I may as well tell you, states that at ten o’clock to-morrow night I shall be at the house of a friend in the Rue Jean Tison, the third house from the corner of the Rue Bailleul, on the right-hand side. Rap three times and the door will be opened to you without question. Mount the stairs to the first floor. Louise will be there also. Do you understand, monsieur?”

“Yes, yes,” I said, and placed the note in my pocket.

“You do not seem to consider any longer the danger to which Richelieu will be exposed,” she said, slyly.

“Oh, if Louise is there,” I murmured.

“You are charming, M. de Brancas,” said the princess, and she gave me an adorable smile. “Now take your reward. Sit by her side and whisper a few sentences such as that into those little pink ears of hers. She will soon be smiling.”

The end of the second act gave me the opportunity of changing my seat.

“Oh, mademoiselle,” I whispered, as I sat down beside her, “believe me, there are only two hands in the whole world that I desire to kiss,—those two which are lying in your lap.”

“Who was the lady you were with this afternoon?” she asked, not deigning to glance at me, but gazing straight in front of her.

“Mlle. de Launay,” I answered.

“Mlle. de Launay?”

“Yes.”

“You know her, then?”

“Richelieu introduced us. Madame du Maine asked me to accompany her this afternoon on an errand. On our way back to the Tuileries we found the way blocked by the flooded street. She was in haste, and as there was no other way, I carried her across. I did not enjoy the task, I assure you, mademoiselle.”

She glanced at me, and I thought I saw signs of relenting in her eyes.

“Come, Louise,” cried the duchess, “we must go. It was not to see the ‘Œdipe’ that we came here. We have accomplished our mission and must return.”

“Till to-morrow, then,” I whispered to Louise as the ladies arose, and I fancied that she gave a slight affirmative nod of the head. I would have accompanied them, but the princess waved me back, and I returned to my box to witness the remainder of the play. It moved me strongly, and I was still thinking over its stirring periods as I reached the quays and crossed the river. As I turned down the Quai Malaquest I fancied I heard footsteps behind me, but when I turned, saw no one. The street was very dark, the candles, which swung here and there in lanterns twenty feet above the roadway, having been extinguished by a gust of rain earlier in the evening and no attempt having been made to relight them.

I was stumbling on over the uneven pavement, when suddenly half a dozen shadows detached themselves from the wall in front of me, and at the same instant I heard hastening footsteps in my rear. Before I could draw my sword, or even, in fact, appreciate my danger, a dozen men threw themselves upon me. A gag was thrust into my mouth, a scarf bound over my eyes, my hands and feet were tied, and in a moment I was helpless. Some one was searching my pockets.

“Some more of the Cartouche gang,” I thought.

“Handle him as gently as possible,” I heard a voice say. “Now two of you lift him and bring him along.”

I was lifted from the pavement and borne along for some distance. Then I was placed in a carriage, which was driven rapidly through the streets. It rumbled across a bridge, stopped, and I heard a sentry’s challenge.

“The Bastille again,” I groaned to myself.

The carriage drove on and then came to a sudden stop. I was lifted out and carried into a room, the door of which I heard closed after me.

“Untie him,” commanded a voice, and in a moment my hands and feet were free, the gag was taken from my mouth and the scarf whisked from my eyes. A man of middle age in the uniform of an officer of the guards stood before me.

“It is the first time I have had the pleasure of meeting you, M. de Brancas,” he said, smiling. “I trust we shall be good friends.”

“The beginning of our acquaintance does not seem to me a happy one,” I answered. “But may I ask your name, monsieur?”

“I am called Hérault, lieutenant of police,” and he bowed.

“Hérault?” I exclaimed.

“At your service,” and he bowed again.

“And why have I been arrested, monsieur?” I asked.

“Ah, do not use so harsh a word!” he cried. “I assure you, monsieur, you are not arrested, but merely detained. There is no charge against you, and on my word you shall be free again day after to-morrow.”

“But in the mean time?”

“In the mean time, monsieur, you will be my guest, and I shall strive to make your stay a pleasant one.”

I searched his face with my eyes, but it told me nothing. With a start I remembered the rendezvous, and my hand sought my pocket. The note Mlle. de Valois had given me was gone. In an instant I understood. The regent was setting another trap for Richelieu.

Hérault read my face as he would have read an open book.

“I see you are beginning to understand, M. de Brancas,” he said, still smiling. “It would be inconvenient to have you present at certain scenes which are to occur say twenty-four hours from now. Consequently you will be my guest for thirty-six hours.”

I was still dazed at the discovery of this trap, and my mind was stumbling blindly along its intricacies.

“How did you learn of the existence of this note, monsieur?” I asked at length, finding here a problem which I could not solve.

“Ah, M. de Brancas,” cried Hérault, “it was there that you displayed an indiscretion which surprised me. Did you for a moment suppose that a masked lady, whose identity, however, was well known, could give you a note in a crowded house where there were twenty of my agents without this being perceived? Did you believe that you could talk of a rendezvous in a theatre box and not be overheard, provided the police wished to overhear you? You will answer, of course, that you talked in a low voice, but permit me to tell you something, monsieur, which may be of value to you in the future. In a theatre, a hall, or any place where there is a great crowd of people and consequently much noise, a single human voice seems to its possessor the most feeble instrument in the world. And yet, no matter how great the confusion, trained ears, such as my agents possess, can pick out that voice and follow it as though it were speaking alone in the stillness of the grave.”

I understood but too clearly, and cursed my own folly and that of Mlle. de Valois.

“As I said before,” continued Hérault, “you are my guest. You are at my house in the Rue de Perpignan. But do not think of escape, monsieur. Twenty men guard every door and avenue of escape. I shall be obliged to station six in your apartment. They will be fully armed, and as you have not even your sword,”—I placed my hand at my side and found that my sword was indeed gone,—“you can easily realize how foolhardy it would be to attack them. They have instructions to kill you rather than permit you to escape, and I should be truly sorry to have the incident end so unhappily.”

He paused for a moment as though to allow his words to take effect, and then motioned me to follow him. We mounted two steep and narrow flights of stairs, passing several sentries on the way, and stopped before a door on the third floor. This Hérault opened, and we entered. Six soldiers, all armed with swords and muskets, were pacing up and down inside. An open door disclosed another and smaller room, in which there was a bed.

“I trust you will be comfortable here, monsieur,” said Hérault. “After all, it will be only for a short time. Is there anything you desire?”

“Nothing, monsieur,” I answered.

“Good-night, then,” and casting another glance around the apartment to assure himself that all was right, he withdrew. I heard him giving some orders outside the door, a bolt was thrown, and all was still. The six guards in my apartment continued marching up and down without saying a word. I realized that nothing could be done that night, and appreciating the value of sleep in clearing the brain and steadying the nerves, I undressed and went to bed. As I entered the smaller room two of the guards took their station at its open door, where they could observe my every movement, and I smiled to myself at the thought that Hérault must indeed consider me formidable.

CHAPTER XIV
THE GAME OF PRISONER’S CHASE

I am fond of lying in bed in the morning and thinking over the situation in which I find myself, as the reader doubtless knows already if he has had the patience to come thus far with me, and when I awoke in the house of M. Hérault I was in no hurry to arise. I was able to see quite clearly all the workings of this trap which had been set for Richelieu. He would arrive at Paris in the evening and would proceed to his hotel. There he would find the note from Mlle. de Valois awaiting him. Hérault could easily find a way to deliver it without exciting suspicion. Richelieu might wonder at my absence, but I knew him well enough to know that suspicion or even certainty of foul play would not for a moment deter him from keeping the appointment which she had given him. He would, then, at ten o’clock, proceed to the house in the Rue Jean Tison, the third from the end, on the right-hand side. He would rap three times and would be admitted, and a moment later Hérault’s men would break open the door, overwhelm him, and carry him off to the Bastille. This time there would be no escape, and I shuddered as I thought what the end would be.

I bounded out of bed. The clothes were suffocating me. It was time for action.

Two guards stood at my door watching me closely. Four others were in the outer room.

“Good-morning, gentlemen,” I said, reflecting that I could lose nothing by being on good terms with these men. “You must have had a weary time of it watching all night.”

“We went on duty only an hour ago, monsieur,” said one of them, who seemed to be in command. “The watches were changed while you slept.”

“And how long will you be on duty?” I asked, carelessly.

“Twelve hours, or until ten o’clock to-night, monsieur,” he answered.

“Ah, you have long hours.”

“We have always long hours in the police, monsieur.”

At that moment the outer door was opened, and a servant appeared bringing my breakfast.

“Excellent!” I cried, entering the outer room and looking at the repast, which was indeed elaborate. “I see I shall have no cause to complain of M. Hérault’s hospitality. Have you breakfasted, lieutenant?”

“Two hours ago, monsieur.”

“Two hours ago! Great heavens, man, your stomach must be an aching emptiness by this time! Sit down, I beg of you. There is enough here for two and some to spare for your men.”

I saw that the man was indeed hungry and looked at my breakfast with eager eyes, but he shook his head at my invitation.

“Ah, come, monsieur,” I said, “why should we refuse to be civil to each other just because I am prisoner and you are guard? It seems to me that a little good feeling will make the day pass more quickly for both of us. Even if you cannot eat, bear me company, I beg of you, for I abhor sitting down alone to table,” and I gently forced him into a chair and myself took the one opposite. He yielded, though still with a show of reluctance, and I maintained a lively conversation while we ate, carefully avoiding any remark which could appear suspicious, and finally succeeded in drawing the man out a little. I ordered another bottle of wine, and treated the five soldiers to a glass apiece, a courtesy which I saw they appreciated. Breakfast was finally finished and we arose.

“What a charming view!” I cried, sauntering to the window and gazing down over the river. “M. Hérault’s house overlooks the Seine it appears.”

“It stands upon the bank, monsieur,” answered the lieutenant, who had followed me.

“Come, monsieur,” I said, turning to him and seemingly taking no further interest in the view, “I have not yet asked your name.”

“Lieutenant Bernin, monsieur.”

“Well, Lieutenant Bernin,” I cried, “I foresee that we are going to pass a very pleasant day together,” and I turned again to an apparently careless scrutiny of the scene. I could catch but a glimpse of the river below the window, from which I judged that the house not only stood upon the bank, but that the upper stories projected out over the water, after the fashion of many of the older houses standing along the Seine. In a moment I saw a possible way of escape. A drop of forty feet to a stone pavement was not to be thought of; but a drop of forty feet into the water was another matter. I turned away from the window, trembling lest by some motion I might betray my thought. I examined the window itself attentively when I could do so unobserved, and saw that it was of the ordinary kind, with a sash which could be readily broken by a blow with a chair or any other heavy object. The problem was to keep my guards at a distance during the moment it would take me to break a passage and drop into the water. It was a problem not easy of solution, and I retired to the bedroom and lay down upon the bed to think it over.

The bedroom was about ten feet square, without windows and with only one door, that opening into the outer room. This door was of some strength, and had a bolt on the outer side, so that by merely closing it and throwing the bolt they could make me a prisoner in this small room. If it were only the soldiers who were in the bedroom and I who were outside, an instant would suffice to bolt the door, and it would be several minutes at least before they could break it down,—more time certainly than I should need to get through the window. In a moment I had my plan, and I spent some half-hour working out all its details.

The remainder of the morning passed quickly, and when my dinner appeared Hérault accompanied it.

“I have been taxing myself with being inhospitable, M. de Brancas,” he said, “but I beg of you to believe that it was the most urgent business which prevented my coming to see you earlier. A lieutenant of police never gets time to rest or to see his friends.”

“I can well believe it,” I answered. “You are going to dine with me, are you not, monsieur?”

“If it pleases you to have a companion.”

“Nothing could please me more,” I said, heartily, for I really admired the man; and as we sat down I examined his face with interest. It was a face which, even animated as at this moment, was still as impenetrable as a wall of stone. The firmly set lips and aggressive chin showed a man not wanting in decision, and I did not doubt that those cool, gray eyes could become two poniards when it was a question of obtaining a confession from a prisoner.

“I need not tell you, monsieur,” I said, after a moment, “how deeply your system of police espionage interests me. I have already had two or three proofs of the thoroughness of its work, and it seems to me a wonderful organization. Do you object to telling me more about it?”

“Not at all,” he answered, smiling. “There is nothing secret about the general principles of our system. What is it you would like to know, monsieur?”

“Tell me how it is organized,—how it proceeds,” I answered.

“It was the Comte d’Argenson who brought it to its present state of perfection,” began Hérault. “He was, as you perhaps know, my predecessor, and held the position for nineteen years. It was for Louis the Great that the thorough organization of the secret department was undertaken. He had, as you have doubtless heard, a great liking for scandal, and for many years the chief duty of the department was to discover intrigues and liaisons. He devoted an hour every morning to listening to the report of the police department, and nothing pleased him so greatly as the details of some love-affair. These, it need hardly be said, he would repeat later in the day to his court, to the great confusion of the parties concerned. Under d’Argenson the secret agents were trained to a remarkable degree of perfection, and I found my work ready for my hand when I entered the office.”

“You have, then, a great number of agents?” I asked.

“They are everywhere, monsieur,” answered Hérault, with a smile. “They constitute the eye which sees everything and the ear which hears everything happening in Paris. You will say, no doubt, that intrigues are not always exposed, that crimes are not always punished. Believe me, monsieur, it is not because they are not known. Reasons of state sometimes step in to protect the guilty ones; at other times the regent prefers to wait, playing with them as a cat plays with a mouse, only in the end to crush them more completely.”

I glanced at Hérault to discover what meaning might lie hidden behind these words, but his face told me nothing. He turned the conversation upon indifferent topics, indicating that he had said all he cared to say about the police department, and a few moments later he arose to go.

“The time of your release is drawing near, monsieur,” he said. “A little patience, and when the morning comes you will be free again. Is there anything you wish?”

“May I have a pack of cards and a piece of chalk?” I asked. “There is no objection, I suppose, to M. Bernin here playing with me?”

“None whatever,” answered Hérault. “The cards shall be sent you, monsieur,” and he was gone.

The cards soon came, and the afternoon passed quickly. Bernin was very fond of play and, as I permitted him to win the few pistoles I possessed, he arose from the table in great good humor. Supper came with the candles. Bernin joined me, at my invitation, no longer making a pretence of holding back, and his five companions each received another glass of wine.

“You desire your revenge, doubtless, monsieur,” said Bernin, as we finished, and I saw that he was trembling with eagerness to resume the cards.

“Yes, let us play,” I answered, and we continued the game. My apparent resignation to my fate had completely disarmed the suspicions of the men, and they were grouped about the table watching the fall of the cards. An hour passed, and nine o’clock sounded from Notre Dame. It was time to act.

“Come, M. Bernin,” I said, yawning and throwing down the cards, “this is growing wearisome. I know a better game than this. Let me explain it to you.” I picked up the piece of chalk and glanced around at the walls. “My bedroom is the best place,” I said. “Come with me,” and I caught up one of the candles and led the way. Bernin followed me.

“The game,” I said, “is called ‘Prisoner’s Chase,’ and may be played in a number of ways. The one which I am about to show you is, however, the best.” I held the candle in one hand and drew a diagram on the wall with the other. “You will observe,” I continued, “the board is in the form of a cross, and at the upper end of the cross is the stronghold, or fortress. Within this fortress is the prisoner. Without it are six guards,” and I rapidly indicated their positions.

“Yes, yes,” said Bernin. “I find the game interesting.”

“You will find it more so before it is ended,” I said. “The guards are limited to moving in straight lines and only one base at a time. The prisoner, on the contrary, like the queen in chess, can move the whole length of the board if necessary. The problem is for the prisoner to compel the six guards to enter the castle, in order to avoid capture, while he himself escapes. If he cannot do this he loses.”

“I understand,” said Bernin. “The prisoner has need to use his brain. A charming game.”

I glanced over my shoulder and saw that two of the other guards had entered the room and were watching my diagram with interest.

“Let us now play the game,” I said. “The guards are drawn up in a line across one end of the board. The prisoner is within the castle. If they can advance in an unbroken line to the castle wall they cut off all possibility of escape and the prisoner loses. They advance to the attack. Ah, but see, they have left a break in the line. The prisoner sees it. He has been waiting this opportunity. He swoops out. This man must either retreat or be taken. He retreats. He is within the castle. Once in he cannot get out. The prisoner has now only five men against him.”

Another of the guards had entered the room and was watching the game.

“Again the guards advance,” I continued. “Again they leave a space, since they cannot all move together. A moment and the prisoner has a second captive,” and I illustrated the word with the action.

“Really,” declared Bernin, “I have never seen a more exciting game.”

“The excitement is yet to come, monsieur,” I cried, and a glance told me that the two remaining guards were in the room. “You see there are now only four guards at liberty, although those within the castle are permitted to harass the prisoner as much as is in their power. But those outside have grown wary. They advance more cautiously. They may still be able to surround and overpower the prisoner. Ah, an opening! The prisoner sees it. He is out in an instant. He has another captive.” The six men were grouped about me and I could feel their breath in my hair.

“Yes, yes,” cried Bernin, “I see. It is most interesting.”

“The most interesting part is yet to come, monsieur,” I repeated. “Remember, the prisoner, to win the game, must not only get all the guards within the castle, but must so dispose them that he can himself escape.”

“True,” and Bernin nodded, “but how will he do it, monsieur?”

“I will show you in a second,” I said, and at that instant, apparently by accident, let the candle fall. “One moment, gentlemen,” I cried. “I will bring another candle, and will show you the conclusion of this interesting game.”

I sprang into the outer room as though to get another candle. In an instant I slammed the door and shot the bolt. They comprehended my purpose and were hammering at the door almost before I could turn, but in the same moment I had seized a chair and with a single blow dashed out the window. I heard the door cracking, and the guard on the staircase without, hearing the noise, were throwing the bolts of the outer door to enter. Even as the one door opened and the other gave way I was through the window, hung a second from the sill, and let myself drop. I shot downward with the speed of a cannon-ball, as it seemed to me, struck the water feet first with a mighty splash, and disappeared beneath it.

I battled madly to regain the surface, and came up like a cork. The darkness concealed me, but from the lighted window I had just left half a dozen excited faces were peering. I heard hoarse shouts of alarm, and some one discharged a musket in my direction, the ball ripping up the water near my head. Without delaying a moment I swam as rapidly as I could towards the opposite quay, and as I gained it I heard renewed shouts behind me, and saw a dozen men, holding aloft flaming torches, tumbling into a boat. Luckily, in that moment I found a landing-place, ran up it quickly to the quay above, and in an instant had mingled with the crowd.

CHAPTER XV
RICHELIEU STANDS HIS GROUND

I knew that I had no time to lose, and I hurried along the quay as rapidly as the crowd would permit, hoping to arrive at the Hotel de Richelieu before the duke left the house. The half-hour was striking as I reached my destination, entered the court, and knocked at the door. It was Jacques who opened.

“Is Richelieu here?” I asked, springing across the threshold and motioning him to bar the door after me, for at every moment I was expecting to feel upon my shoulder the hand of one of Hérault’s agents.

“M. le Duc left the house not ten minutes since,” answered Jacques.

“And where did he go?”

“I do not know, monsieur.”

“Was there a note left here for him to-day?”

“Yes, monsieur. A small perfumed note.”

“And you gave it to Richelieu?”

“Not half an hour ago.”

“Who delivered the note?”

“A man in the livery of the regent’s household, monsieur.”

I groaned aloud. It was then as I had expected. The livery of the regent’s household was of course at the service of Hérault. I was for a moment stunned.

“M. le Duc was greatly chagrined at not finding you here, monsieur,” continued Jacques. “I told him that you had attended the theatre last night and had not returned. But monsieur is dripping wet,” he cried in astonishment, as I advanced into the circle of light cast by the hall lamp.

“Yes,” I said, looking somewhat ruefully at the ruin of my best suit, “I have just come out of the Seine, and it is not pleasant running through the streets in wet garments on a December night. I must have a change of clothes at once. If we are prompt I may yet save Richelieu.”

“He is in danger, then, monsieur?”

“In the greatest danger,” I answered. “Come.”

We ran up the stairs, and with that promptness which I had already so greatly admired, Jacques produced a suit of clothing. In five minutes I was ready for the street, and snatching up a sword, descended the staircase three steps at a time. As I passed through the hall I glanced at the clock and saw that I had yet twenty minutes in which to reach the Rue Jean Tison. The rendezvous was for ten o’clock.

I crossed the Pont Royal, and turning down the Quai des Galleries du Louvre, as likely to be least crowded, passed the Port St. Nicholas at a run, and came to the Rue des Poulies. This led me to the Rue Bailleul, which I remembered only too well, and in a moment I was at the Rue Jean Tison. The end of the street was blocked by a house, through which a large gate-way was pierced, and I passed through this and rapped at the door of the third house on the right. As I did so I heard ten o’clock striking from St. Honoré. Some one fumbled at the bolts within, and the door opened. A noise at the end of the street caught my ear and I paused an instant on the threshold. As I looked back, I saw approaching from either direction a company of mounted guards, their arms clanking and the hoofs of their horses awakening a thousand echoes.

“Bar the door quickly!” I said to the old woman who stood within holding a candle. “Where are Richelieu and the ladies?”

“On the floor above, monsieur.”

Without waiting for another word, I sprang up the stairs and flung open the first door I came to. By the dim light I saw Richelieu holding Mlle. de Valois in his arms. She uttered a startled exclamation as I entered, and drew away from him.

“M. le Duc,” I cried, “we have not a moment to lose! There are forty guards at the door. We must go, and quickly.”

“Upon my soul it is de Brancas!” exclaimed Richelieu. “And where have you been all day, my friend?”

“Do not stop for questioning, I beg of you,” I panted. “Is there any other way out of this house?”

“I do not know. I will see,” and the princess ran to the door, where we heard her rapidly interrogating the old woman. At that moment a thunderous knock sounded on the door below and echoed through the house.

“Oh, monsieur, what is happening?” cried a voice which made me start. “Is this another trap?”

“It looks very much like it, Mlle. Dacour,” replied Richelieu, gloomily, and turned towards the door with frowning face.

There was a second knock louder than the first, which shook the house and made the windows rattle.

“Open or we will force an entrance!” cried a voice outside.

There was an instant’s silence, and the princess came back to us, her face white with fear.

“There is no way of getting out except by the door below,” she faltered.

“But there must be!” I cried. “The roof,—can we not escape by the roof? Come, M. le Duc, I implore you,” for, seemingly oblivious to the sounds below, he had gone to his mistress and was whispering in her ear.

In a moment he turned to me.

“De Brancas,” he said, “I am weary of this perpetual game of hide-and-seek. I am tired of forever running away. I swore last time that I should never do it again. Go, my friend. As for me, I intend to stay.”

I looked at him aghast. He was smiling calmly and was holding out his hand to me.

“But to stay means to be captured,” I stammered, not yet understanding him. “We cannot defeat a regiment, monsieur.”

“That may be,” and the duke still smiled.

“And the Bastille.”

“Very likely.”

“And——” but here I paused.

“Go on, my friend,” said Richelieu, calmly, “I read your thought. You would say that after the Bastille the Place de Greve and the block. Is it not so? But heads do not fall so easily, de Brancas. The regent would think twice before sending me to the axe.”

Blows were raining upon the door, and I knew that it must soon give way. I looked at Richelieu again, but he had returned to the princess.

“Very well,” I muttered, “we must stay in this devil of a hole, then, it seems,” and I folded my arms and walked moodily towards the door.

But I paused as I felt a light touch upon my elbow.

“Oh, M. de Brancas,” murmured Louise, “when M. le Duc told us that he had not seen you, that you had not returned to his hotel after the theatre last night, but that the note had been delivered, I suspected a trap. I implored him to go, but he would not listen.”

“I can well believe it,” I groaned. “He is capable of any madness.”

I heard the door below splitting. In another moment the soldiers would be upon us.

“And conceive our anxiety for you, monsieur,” continued Louise, in a lower tone.

“For me?” I cried. “And you have then forgiven me, Louise?”

“Oh, Jean!” and my arms were around her, “did you think these tears were for Richelieu?”

With a crash the door gave way, and I heard the tramp of heavy feet upon the stairs.

“Come, my friend,” said Richelieu, and together we left the room, the door of which he closed after us.

The guards were already half-way up the stairs, but paused at the sight of us standing there in the shadow above them.

“Good-evening, gentlemen,” said Richelieu. “May I ask your errand in this house?”

“’Tis Richelieu!” cried a voice, which I recognized as that of Hérault. “Wait a moment, men.”

He pushed his way to the front of the crowd.

“Our errand here concerns only yourself, M. le Duc,” he said. “We are charged to arrest you.”

“And of what am I accused?” asked Richelieu.

“You were ordered to join your regiment at Bayonne, monsieur,” answered Hérault, “and you are now in Paris. That is your offence.”

“’Tis not a great one.”

“But we must arrest you nevertheless, monsieur. Do you surrender, or shall we be compelled to take you by force?”

“Monsieur,” cried Richelieu, “you have just said that your mission here concerns only myself. If I accompany you without resistance have I your word that no one else in this house will be molested?”

“You have my word, monsieur,” answered Hérault, who had not perceived me in the dim light of the hall and thought only that Richelieu was trying to protect the princess.

“Oh, do not do this; we may yet escape!” I implored, but the duke silenced me with a smile.

“On those conditions I surrender,” he said. “I will come down to you, M. Hérault,” and he started to descend, but paused as he perceived a sudden commotion at the door.

“A messenger for M. Hérault!” cried some one.

“What is it?” asked Hérault.

A man forced his way up the staircase and to Hérault’s side.

“Bernin,” cried the latter, “what are you doing here?”

“I have to report, monsieur,” he said, humbly, “that my prisoner has escaped.”

“Escaped!” exclaimed Hérault. “Impossible! How could one unarmed man defeat six guards and wade through twenty more?”

“This was not a man, it was a devil,” declared Bernin. “He locked us in his bedroom like so many pigs, having first decoyed us there to show us how to play a wonderful game. He broke open the window and dropped forty feet into the Seine. We had the door down in a moment, but he was gone.”

“And where did he go?” cried Hérault. “Tell me that, Bernin?”

“Alas, I do not know, monsieur.”

“I think I can relieve your anxiety on that score, M. Hérault,” I said, descending to a lower step. “I wish you a very good-evening, monsieur,” and I bowed politely.

He stared at me with open mouth, as though unable to believe his eyes. Some one brought a torch, which cast a red glow over the hallway and threw into relief the faces of the soldiers looking up at us. But he was a man accustomed to astonishments, and he soon pulled himself together.

“You will pardon my surprise, M. de Brancas,” he said, at last. “You seem to be possessed of an amazing agility. May I ask how you entered here?”

“By the door,” I answered, still smiling, and rejoicing that it was my turn, “an instant before your men appeared at the end of the street, monsieur.”

He gazed at me for a moment longer as I smiled down into his eyes.

“Come, M. de Brancas,” he said, at last, mounting to the step where I stood, “give me your hand. By my soul, you are a brave man and I admire you. You must some day show me this game with which you beguiled my soldiers.”

“With pleasure,” I laughed. “It is an excellent game.”

“And what is it called?” he asked. “Perhaps I already know it.”

“I do not think so, monsieur. It is called ‘Prisoner’s Chase’. If properly played, in the end the prisoner escapes.”

“Well, you are free, M. de Brancas,” said Hérault, still looking at me. “My orders were to detain you only until Richelieu was safely arrested. As he has agreed to accompany us, we need not trouble you further. I see now,” he added, “why he was so anxious to have no one else here molested.”

“Must it be, monsieur?” I cried, turning to Richelieu. “Is this the only way?”

“This is the only way,” he answered; and then, turning to Hérault, “Monsieur, will you permit me to say a word in private to my friend?”

“There will be no attempt to escape?” asked Hérault, hesitating.

“You have my word, monsieur,” said Richelieu, proudly.

“True,” and Hérault thought for a moment. “M. le Duc, I will withdraw with my men to the stairfoot. In three minutes you will descend alone and without your sword. Is it agreed?”

“It is agreed,” said Richelieu, and Hérault and his men went down the stairs.

“All this amounts to nothing, de Brancas,” said Richelieu, in a low tone. “This regency will not last a week, and so the worst that can happen to me will be a week in prison. What I fear is that Charlotte, over-estimating my danger, will be moved to make some ridiculous sacrifice for me. Of course, you cannot tell her of the conspiracy, but make her believe, if possible, that I am in no danger.”

“I shall try, monsieur,” I faltered.

“And tell Madame du Maine,” he continued, rapidly, “that everything is prepared at Bayonne and that my absence will make no difference. My men know my wishes, the town council is ready, and the city will declare against Orleans.”

“Yes, yes, I will tell her.”

“And now, good-by, my friend,” and Richelieu took my hand. “You have already performed miracles of valor in my behalf, and that I am a prisoner now is my own fault and not yours. I shall never forget it.”

He drew his sword, threw it far from him, and passed down the stairs under the red glow of the torches to the captors who awaited him, his head proudly erect, his lips smiling. The lights threw flaring shadows in every corner, but their bearers stood in perfect silence, with upturned faces, admiring, breathless. Could I have known what was to follow ere I should see that courtly form again, even then, I swear it, I would have rushed down sword in hand and cut our way to freedom. But it was not to be.

I stood there motionless till the tramp of horses died away in the distance. Then I opened the door and entered.

“We have heard all,” said Louise. “Richelieu is arrested.”

“And I am here,” I added, gloomily.

“Believe me, we do not blame you in the least, M. de Brancas,” and Mlle. de Valois smiled through her tears. “You did more than any other man could have done, monsieur.”

“In any event, there is nothing more for us to do here,” I said. “Let us go. But first, let me tell you, mademoiselle, that Richelieu entreats you not to over-estimate his danger, and not to worry on his account, since he believes he will be free in a week’s time.”

“He is trying to deceive me, monsieur,” and she looked at me questioningly. “You yourself know how little ground there is for such a hope.”

“There is something which I cannot tell you, mademoiselle,” I answered, “but which will undoubtedly secure his release if it results fortunately. That is true, believe me,” and without daring to say more, I opened the door and led the way down the staircase.

We were soon in the street, and I accompanied them to the little door opening on the Rue de Richelieu through which the duke had evaded the regent’s first trap. They bade me adieu, and Louise gave my hand a little pressure as she left me, but not even that could lift me from the gloom into which I had fallen. I returned slowly to the Rue des Saints Pères. Jacques was awaiting me, and paled visibly at sight of my downcast face.

“What has happened, monsieur?” he asked in a frightened whisper.

“Richelieu has been arrested. He is again in the Bastille,” I answered.

“But you will get him out, will you not, monsieur?” and the anxious fellow looked at me piteously.

“I will try, rest assured of that,” I said, and I smiled, with tears in my eyes, at his faith in me.

Sleep was long in coming to my eyes that night. If the conspiracy succeeded, Richelieu was saved. But if it failed, what then? I shuddered at the thought, for I remembered the regent’s last words to me and the look which had accompanied them. At last I fell into a troubled sleep, in which I saw again that graceful figure descending the staircase under the red glare of the torches. And then the scene changed. There was the same sea of eager, admiring faces watching in breathless silence, but the figure they watched was going up instead of down, and on the platform to which it was mounting there stood a block and a masked man with an axe. And the red glow over it all was blood.

CHAPTER XVI
A DAY OF FRUITLESS EFFORT

I arose in the morning weary and unrefreshed. My forebodings had increased rather than diminished, and I determined to lose no time in doing all I could in Richelieu’s behalf. Jacques’s gloomy face reflected my own, and I ate my breakfast in silence, for I had not the heart to tell him how little hope I really had and how helpless I felt.

I left the house and went first to the Tuileries. Although the hour was still early Madame du Maine was already at work, as I had no doubt she would be, and I was shown into her presence. As usual, Mlle. de Launay was with her.

“Have you heard of the arrest of M. de Richelieu, madame?” I inquired, as soon as we had exchanged greetings.

“Is the duke, then, arrested again, and for what?” she asked, quickly and with visible uneasiness.

“For nothing connected with your plan, madame, but merely for being in Paris against the orders of the regent.”

I saw that she breathed again.

“And when was he in Paris?” she asked. “I thought him at Bayonne.”

“He was in Paris last night, madame.”

“And what was he doing in Paris?” she questioned, sharply.

“He came upon some private business, madame. He was surprised by a company of guards and taken to the Bastille.”

“Some love-affair, I do not doubt,” she said, bitterly. “Richelieu should learn to allow his private affairs to wait when they interfere with matters of greater moment, as he must have known they would do in this case.”

I glanced at the duchess in surprise, for this was the first indication of selfishness I had detected in her.

“He expressly charged me to tell you, madame,” I said, a little stiffly, “that his arrest would make no difference to your plans so far as Bayonne is concerned. The regiment and the town council are ready and understand perfectly what is expected of them.”

“Then all is well,” cried the duchess.

“Pardon me, madame,” I objected, “but all is not well. M. de Richelieu is in the Bastille.”

“Well, he will not remain there long. In a week we shall have control of Paris, and the doors will be opened for him.”

“But if the conspiracy fails, madame?”

“In that case, monsieur,” said the duchess, haughtily, “we shall none of us be in better case than is M. de Richelieu at this moment. But who talks of failure? We shall not fail. We cannot fail,” and I thought as I looked at her that with a few more leaders such as she failure would indeed be impossible. But one woman against all France was heavy odds.

“Believe me, M. de Brancas,” she continued, in a gentler tone, “I can at this time do nothing for our friend. I have no influence with the regent, and a word from me would do Richelieu more harm than good.”

I recognized the justness of her words, and said as much.

“Anything I can do shall be done, rest assured of that,” she added. “By the way, monsieur, I shall look for you at my salon to-night. We have need that all our friends should gather to us.”

I promised to be there, and withdrew with a heavy heart. I paused to consider what next to do. If I were to go to the Bastille, I reflected, I might have opportunity to see the prisoner and exchange a word of comfort with him. Anything was better than doing nothing, so I set off towards the dismal old prison. I reached it in the course of half an hour and asked the sentry at the outer gate if I might see M. de Maison-Rouge.

“What name, monsieur?” he inquired.

I gave him my name, and he summoned a messenger, who returned in a few moments saying I was to enter. The gate opened and I was again in the outer court-yard.

“I know the way,” I said to the messenger, who started to accompany me.

“Nevertheless I must go with you, monsieur,” he replied. “It is the rule.”

I made no further objection, and he led me to the presence of the governor.

“Ah, M. de Brancas,” and he smiled as I entered, “you are early, but I was expecting you.”

“Doubtless,” I answered, dryly. “But tell me, may I see Richelieu?”

“I regret to say that you may not, monsieur. The regent has sent me a special order to allow the duke to see no one and to hold communication with no one.”

A chill ran through me at this new evidence of the regent’s purpose.

“And what inference do you draw from this order, monsieur?” I inquired, after a moment’s gloomy thought.

Maison-Rouge shrugged his shoulders.

“It is not for me to draw inferences,” he said. “I obey orders without questioning.”

“And how does he take his imprisonment?”

“He seems to be in good spirits,” and Maison-Rouge smiled. “In fact, I have never seen him otherwise, and he was here for over a year when he was younger. I use him as kindly as the regulations permit. He has his old room, which he seems to prefer, and I have allowed him to send to his hotel for some additional clothing and furniture. I can do nothing more, monsieur, even were I so inclined. There are many in the Bastille who are not so fortunate.”

There was nothing more to be said, and I left the place, the messenger, who was waiting outside the door, accompanying me to the gate. As I passed through it, I reflected that I might perhaps be able to catch a glimpse of Richelieu at his cell window, and I turned to the right along the lofty outer wall and the deep ditch which rendered approach to it more difficult. The great prison had an indescribably threatening and gloomy air even under the rays of the noonday sun, and my heart trembled within me at the thought of the scores of helpless men behind those massive walls; of the miserable wretches lying in the oubliettes, thrown there, perhaps, by a royal caprice which had forgotten the prisoner before it had forgotten its wrath, and for whom death was the only release. Truly, there are worse things than death, and it were better for Richelieu to lose his head than to go mad in one of those reeking torture chambers.

A narrow path ran along the top of the embankment, and I followed this until I reached the end of the outer wall. Within was the dreary Tower du Puits in which we had been confined, and my eyes sought out the window of Richelieu’s cell and of my own just above it. At this distance they seemed mere port-holes in the great wall, and owing to the darkness within, I found that I could not see the prisoner, even if he were standing at his window. But he might be able to recognize me, and I took my handkerchief from my pocket and waved it in the air. In a moment I was rejoiced to see an answering gleam of white between the bars of the window, and I knew that he had seen me. I waved again and yet again, and as I did so heard hurrying feet behind me, and a hand was laid roughly on my shoulder.

“You will accompany us, monsieur,” said a voice.

I turned sharply and saw three men in the uniform of the Bastille guards. Each carried a musket.

“What is it now?” I asked in amazement.

“Monsieur knows or should know,” answered the man, “that all signalling to the prisoners is prohibited under pain of imprisonment. Put up your handkerchief and follow me, monsieur.”

I followed without a word, but inwardly cursing my ill fortune, and for the second time that morning the outer gate opened to admit me, this time without question. I was led straight to the governor’s office, a sentry on either side. Maison-Rouge looked at me with astonishment as I entered, and heard with evident impatience the statement of the guard who had arrested me.

“That will do,” he said, as he concluded his story, and as the door closed behind them he turned to me. “M. de Brancas, I need not tell you that your offence is a serious one, and that many persons have been imprisoned for much less.”

“I had desired only to let Richelieu know that his friends had not forgot him,” I protested.

“The regent has ordered that no communication be held with him,” said Maison-Rouge, sternly, “and I tell you plainly, monsieur, that at another attempt of this kind he will be placed in a cell where he will not only not see his friends, but where he will also never see the light of day. I intend taking no chance of offending the regent a second time.”

“Very well, monsieur,” I said, reflecting that anything was better than that Richelieu should be plunged into an oubliette; “as for me, I promise to hold no further communication with him until the regent permits it. Am I, also, a prisoner?”

“No, M. de Brancas,” he answered, not unkindly, “I do not intend to imprison you. I wish merely to warn you. You may go.”

The messenger was waiting, and I left the Bastille for the second time, to the obvious astonishment of the sentries at the outer gate. As it clanged shut behind me I decided that there was only one thing more I could do, to see the regent and endeavor to mitigate his anger against Richelieu. I had deferred this to the last, for I had little hope of success, and indeed thought it not unlikely that I should leave his presence escorted by a squad of soldiers; but everything else had failed me, and I turned towards the Palais Royal. Two o’clock was striking as I reached the Rue St. Honoré, which was crowded with the usual throng of carriages and pedestrians. I pushed my way through these, meeting no one whom I knew, and soon reached the palace.

I was shown into a large antechamber where a score of people were awaiting an audience, and among them I perceived Hérault. He was walking up and down with a gentleman whom I did not know, but who wore the uniform of a captain of the guards. In a moment Hérault perceived me, and came towards me, holding out his hand.

“Good-day, M. de Brancas,” he cried. “I am glad to see you. I trust you suffered no ill effects from your bath of yesterday evening?”

“None whatever, monsieur,” I answered, smiling, for I liked the hearty good humor of the man, and perceived that my liking was returned.

“M. de Brancas,” he continued, “allow me to present my friend the Marquis d’Ancenis, captain of the guards. I was just relating to him the details of your leap into the Seine.”

“In faith, ’twas worth relating,” declared d’Ancenis, warmly. “I know no other man who could have done it so neatly, monsieur.”

I bowed my thanks.

“It was really nothing,” I protested, “and after all accomplished nothing, since the friend whom I wished to rescue is at this moment in the Bastille.”

“Ah, well, one cannot accomplish miracles, monsieur,” said d’Ancenis, and I looked with pleasure at his smiling face, which reminded me of Richelieu. “Do you know, you have become famous during your brief residence in Paris. Only last night I heard a handsome woman discoursing on your many feats.”

My heart leaped within me.

“And may I ask the lady’s name, monsieur?” I stammered.

“’Twas Madame du Maine,” said d’Ancenis, and my heart sank again, for I had hoped to hear another name. “We had a little dinner together with half a dozen others, and the duchess was the life of it. She is a wonderful woman, only I fancied last night that she was looking careworn.”

I thought to myself that if he knew what I knew he would not wonder that she looked careworn.

“Well,” he continued, “she told us a story concerning you which seemed to me well-nigh impossible. What do you think it was, Hérault?” he asked, turning to the latter. “It was that this devil of a fellow, together with Richelieu, not only managed to escape from the Bastille the other night, but after keeping an appointment killed two or three of the regent’s attendants, and then actually forced their way back into their cells, leaving no trace of their passage, before the regent could get to the Bastille. When he reached there they were asleep in their cells, all the gates were barred, and not a sentry had seen them pass. What think you of that?”

“It sounds like a story from the ‘Thousand and One Nights,’” and Hérault looked at me questioningly. “But is it true, monsieur?”

“The facts were very much as M. d’Ancenis says, though I have never told the story,” and I smiled at the astonishment of the two men.

“But how was this miracle accomplished?” asked Hérault.

“Ah, do not ask him that, Hérault,” cried d’Ancenis, gayly. “He may, perchance, have need to work it again some time, and as for me, I hope it will again succeed.”

“If I had known you were a magician of that sort, monsieur,” laughed Hérault, “I should have placed twenty guards in your room instead of six. There might then have been three or four whom you could not have interested in that game of yours.”

He would have said more, but an usher interrupted him.

“The regent awaits the Marquis d’Ancenis and M. Hérault,” he said.

The two hurried after him and disappeared through a door at the farther end of the room. I walked up and down impatiently, for I knew no one else in the antechamber, and as the moments passed I wondered what business of importance it was which kept them so long with the regent. It was fully half an hour before they reappeared, and a glance at their faces told me that something of moment had occurred. They merely nodded to me as they passed, and hurried from the room. As I was reflecting on their singular behavior, a page brought me a message.

“The regent regrets that he cannot see you to-day, monsieur,” he said. “He is very busy with affairs of state.”

Well, perhaps he was busy, but I felt my apprehension deepen as I left the palace and returned slowly to the Hotel de Richelieu. There was nothing more to be done, at least for that day, but perhaps the morrow would bring some hope with it. One glance at my face told Jacques of the ill success of my efforts, but he bravely concealed his disappointment. He told me that Richelieu had sent for certain articles of clothing and furniture, from which he argued that his imprisonment could not be very rigorous. I had not the heart to tell him of my grave fears and the reasons for them, and ate my dinner in silence.

I spent the half-hour following before the fire reviewing the situation, but look at it how I might, I could find little of comfort in it. If the conspiracy succeeded, everything would be well, but a haunting fear possessed me, a belief that the regent knew of it, and that, to use Hérault’s words of the day before, he was playing with us as a cat plays with a mouse, only to crush us more completely in the end.

Eight o’clock sounded as I sat there musing, and I remembered with a start that I had promised Madame du Maine to be present at her salon that evening. I had little desire to mix in that gay company, but a promise was a promise, and I sprang from my chair, added a few touches to my toilet, and, leaving the house, was soon at the Tuileries.

CHAPTER XVII
THE REGENT SHOWS HIS HAND

The place was more brilliant than I had ever seen it. The room was crowded from end to end by a throng of richly dressed people, from whom every instant came bursts of laughter, following some witty sally,—only to me, whose ears were perhaps unduly critical, the laughter sounded forced and unnatural, sometimes almost hysterical. Mlle. de Launay appeared to be everywhere at once, and left smiles behind her wherever she went. Truly, a wonderful woman, but to me her activity seemed feverish. The duchess, as usual, held her court at the farther end of the room, and the crowd about her was so dense that I despaired of getting to her, and paused to look about me. I saw that all of her political satellites were present. Polignac was the centre of one interested group, Chancel was declaiming his latest satire to another, Malesieu was explaining the meaning of a Greek phrase to a third. There were many persons present whom I had never seen before, notably a number of gentlemen elegantly dressed but not in the latest Paris mode, whom I immediately set down as provincial. The duchess and her maid withdrew before I could get a word with either of them, and I joined the group about Chancel. But I found his satire little to my liking, for it was merely a brutal tirade against the regent, and contained accusations which I felt certain even Chancel himself knew to be untrue.

As the moments passed I noticed that the provincial gentlemen, as well as the other important personages present, were approached by a page and taken one by one to the room into which Madame du Maine had retired, and that when they came out again there was fire in their eyes and a new intelligence in their faces. Only once was there any break in this stream of persons entering and leaving the cabinet. The page appeared to be seeking some one whom he could not find.

“Have you seen the Abbé Brigaut this evening, monsieur?” I heard him inquire of the gentleman at my elbow, and the latter replied in the negative. He took this answer back to the duchess, and a moment later reappeared to conduct others of those present to that mysterious door. I was racking my brain to find an explanation of this proceeding, when the page approached me.

“Madame du Maine wishes to speak to you a moment, M. de Brancas,” he said, and without waiting for a reply, he led the way to the door through which I had already seen so many enter. I followed him, and in a moment the door closed behind me. The duchess and Mlle. de Launay were sitting at a large table littered with papers.

“Ah, M. de Brancas,” cried the former as I entered, and I saw that her eyes were bright and her face flushed with excitement, “it is, as you see, a gathering of the clans. To-night we are all assembled, each to learn his part in the drama we are about to play. You have perhaps noticed that there are many strangers present?”

“I have indeed noticed it, madame,” I answered.

“And you have been wondering who they are, have you not? Well, I will tell you, M. de Brancas. They are representatives of half the noble houses of Brittany, who have come to give me personal assurance of their support. To-night, monsieur, the threads are all in my hands, and in five days Philip d’Orleans will no longer be regent of France.”

The lines of care had faded from her face and left her ten years younger. Her companion had caught her enthusiasm, and her eyes were sparkling in sympathy with those of the duchess.

“I rejoice to learn that everything goes so well,” I said, and I felt my heart warming for these two women who had accomplished so much. “Has madame any commands for me? I should be most happy to take a part in the drama, even though it be a small one.”

“’Tis not a command, but a request,” she answered, quickly. “You can be of great service to me if you will, M. de Brancas. The arrest of Richelieu takes a cog out of the wheel, and in order that the machine may move with perfect certainty and smoothness I wish you to replace that cog. In a word, monsieur, what I desire is a personal representative at Bayonne, a man whom I can trust and in whose courage I have faith. You are that man, M. de Brancas,”—I bowed at the compliment,—“and I ask you to go to represent me at Bayonne.”

“I will go with the greatest pleasure, madame,” I answered; “only will the good people of Bayonne have in me the same faith which you have?”

“You will take papers with you which will inspire them with faith, monsieur,” she answered, “and I believe that after they have known you a few days even the papers will be unnecessary. They will be handed to you presently, for I wish you to set out to-night. At ten o’clock a horse will be waiting for you just without the little gate at the back of the Tuileries, which you already know, as you passed through it the other day with Mlle. de Launay. Here is a key to the gate. At ten o’clock we will give you the papers; you will go out at the back of the palace without attracting attention. You will open the gate and lock it after you. At the other side you will find your horse. You will mount the horse and set off for Bayonne. You will find changes of horses awaiting you at Orleans, Tours, Poitiers, Angoulême, Bordeaux, and Rion. Where, in detail, you are to look for these horses will be specified in the written instructions which will be given you, since you might forget if I were merely to tell you. And I beg of you do not spare the horses. Upon reaching Bayonne, you will go at once to the address which you will find in the papers. All of the papers will then be opened and read in your presence, and you will see that the instructions contained in them are carried out. Do you understand, monsieur?”

“Perfectly,” I answered.

“And you agree?”

“Yes, madame.”

“I thank you, monsieur,” and she gave me her hand very prettily. “I knew that I should not call upon you in vain. Adieu, monsieur. When we meet again I hope to be in a position to advance your fortunes.”

It wanted but half an hour of ten o’clock when I returned to the outer room. I was apparently the last one to whom the duchess had instructions to give, for she soon followed me, accompanied by her maid. The room was still crowded, and no one showed any disposition to leave. The knowledge that the time for action was not far distant charged the air with excitement, and men looked at men with set lips and shining eyes. There was no mistaking the determination to strike the regency a blow from which it could not recover, and for the first time I began to be really confident of success.

“Where is St. Aulaire?” I heard Mlle. de Launay inquire.

“I did not invite him this evening,” answered the duchess. “He knows nothing of our plans.”

“’Tis not like him to await an invitation, however,” observed the girl. “Brigaut is also still missing, is he not?”

“He has doubtless been detained. He has much to do.”

She turned to the courtiers who were crowding around her, when there came a little tumult at the door, and I saw a thin, old man pushing his way through the crowd. At a glance I recognized St. Aulaire.

“Ah, madame,” he cried, as he neared the duchess, “the most astonishing things have been happening in Paris this evening. Three or four hours ago, Hérault and his men arrested a fellow called Abbé Bri—Bri—I forget the name. Does any one here happen to know the name of a certain adventurer which begins with Bri?” he continued, appealing to the group about the duchess.

A silence as of death had fallen upon the room. Nearly every man within sound of St. Aulaire’s voice knew that the Abbé Brigaut was interested in the conspiracy, and was, indeed, one of the most trusted of Madame du Maine’s agents in Paris, but not one of them uttered a word. St. Aulaire found himself looking into faces of stone.

“But of course you do not,” he rattled on, after a moment. “No one here would know him. Nevertheless, it is a most amusing story. It seems that this abbé has a secretary, and this secretary, of course, has a mistress. Last night he had an appointment with his mistress, which, it appears, he did not keep,—in which he was greatly to blame. This morning he called to make his excuses, and told the girl that his master had kept him awake all night preparing a lot of papers which were to be sent to Spain.”

At that word a shiver ran through the listeners, and the duchess became livid. By a supreme effort she smiled.

“Ah, well, monsieur,” she said, “continue. We find the story very interesting.”

“Well,” continued St. Aulaire, who did not often find so attentive an audience and who needed no encouragement to proceed, “the girl, of course, was an agent of Hérault. All girls of that class are. It is the price they pay for the protection of the police. So she told a gendarme about the Abbé Brigaut’s correspondence with Spain. The gendarme told Hérault, Hérault told Dubois, Dubois told the regent, and there you are. A few hours later a company of guards surrounded the house of this abbé—who, it seems, is not really an abbé, after all—and took him to the Bastille, where he is now comfortably lodged. His papers, of course, were carefully gathered up and handed over to Dubois.”

“And is that all?” asked the duchess, who had bitten her lips until they were red with blood in the effort to retain her composure.

“No, that is only the beginning,” cried St. Aulaire, enjoying immensely the sensation he was creating and little comprehending how profound it was. “It seems that Dubois and the regent found much to interest them in the abbé’s papers. It is said at the Palais Royal, where I was but a moment ago, that they discovered proofs of some ridiculous Spanish plot, I know not what; but, at any rate, they sent Hérault to arrest the Spanish minister, Prince Cellamare himself. There is big game for you! They tell me that he was completely surprised—trust Hérault for that—and made no resistance.”

St. Aulaire paused from sheer want of breath. Every one was looking into his neighbor’s face.

“Gentlemen,” said the duchess, in a hard voice, “it seems that we are to be too late. I would recommend that you leave here as quickly as possible, as M. Hérault will probably not long delay paying me a visit.”

Even as they turned to go there was a tramp of feet at the door, which swung open, giving a glimpse of armed men beyond. But only two men entered. They were Hérault and the Marquis d’Ancenis. Without glancing to the right or left, and with an admirable composure, they advanced straight to the duchess along the lane which was opened for them.

“Madame du Maine,” said d’Ancenis, bowing, “I regret to inform you that you are under arrest.”

“What, captain!” cried the duchess, and I could not but admire the brave manner in which she took the blow, “you dine with me one evening and arrest me the next? Is not that ungallant?”

“’Tis a disagreeable duty, madame,” answered d’Ancenis, “but one which must be performed, nevertheless. Let no one leave the room,” he added sharply, in a louder tone, hearing a movement behind him. But it was no one trying to escape,—every one seemed too nearly paralyzed to think of that, even had it been possible. It was only the Cardinal de Polignac, intriguer, liar, and arrant coward, who had tumbled in a heap on the floor, completely overcome by terror. He was pushed to one side with scant ceremony and left to recover as best he might.

“I am at your orders, monsieur,” said Madame du Maine, proudly, and d’Ancenis bowed again.

Hérault returned to the entrance and ordered in a company of the guards, whom he posted at all the doors, while d’Ancenis prepared to take a list of all the people in the room. This occupied some time, and while it was in progress I again gained the side of Madame du Maine.

“Permit me to compliment you, madame,” I said in a low tone, “upon the heroic manner in which you withstand this reverse. It is magnificent.”

The duchess looked at me with a smile.

“Perhaps all is not yet lost, monsieur,” she said, glancing quickly around to see that no one else could hear.

“Not yet lost?” and I looked at her in amazement. “I do not understand, madame.”

“Can I trust you?” she asked, looking at me a moment. “Yes, I think I can. At four o’clock this afternoon, monsieur, the Duc d’Orleans, accompanied only by three or four gentlemen, left Paris to visit the king at Versailles, to lay before him, I do not doubt, the details of our plans and to get his signature to certain papers which Orleans might himself hesitate to enforce without the royal approval. St. Aulaire was mistaken in saying that the regent was in the city this evening.”

“What then, madame?” I asked. “I confess that I am still in the dark.”

“At nine o’clock this evening the regent was to leave Versailles to return to Paris. Two hours later he will arrive at that part of the road near St. Cloud where it passes through a strip of woodland. At that point he will disappear. He will enter the wood at one side, but he will never come out at the other. He will vanish as though the earth had opened and swallowed him. It is a detail of the plan which, until this moment, I have kept to myself, and of which I am certain the police know nothing. I was arranging a pleasant little surprise for our confederates, for with Orleans out of the way what serious opposition could there be to Philip of Spain? Ah, well, it seems that it is this detail which is to save us, and which may yet make Philip of Spain regent of France. You understand now, monsieur?”

I gazed in amazement at this extraordinary woman, who permitted nothing to stand in the way of her ambition.

“But that is assassination,” I gasped, at last.

The duchess looked at me coolly.

“Call it what you please, M. de Brancas,” she said.

“But, madame, it is something to which no gentleman could consent.”

“Do you presume to give me a lesson in honor, monsieur?” she demanded, haughtily, though still preserving the low tone in which the entire conversation had been conducted.

“Oh, madame,” I said, “you do not understand. Your standards of honor are different from those of a man. To a woman everything is permitted—almost everything, for even a woman will not break her word if she be honorable.”

“And what then, monsieur?” she asked, looking at me in astonishment.

“Simply this, madame,” and I gave her look for look: “I do not consent to this assassination.”

“You do not consent?” she hissed, her eyes blazing with anger. “And pray who asks you to consent, monsieur? I do not see that it is any concern of yours. Do you mean that you, who prate so prettily of honor, will betray me?”

“No, madame,” I answered, “I shall not betray you,—not even to save the regent from assassination. What you have told me in confidence I shall tell no one. Only I shall save the regent if I can.”

“If you can,” she sneered. “That is well said. Unassisted, M. de Brancas, I defy you to save the regent.”

I looked at her once again but said nothing. Then I left her side. D’Ancenis was still busy taking the names of the prisoners. A group of guards lounged at each door. I considered a moment. If I could reach the horse which had been waiting for me since ten o’clock outside the little gate at the back of the palace I might yet be in time to warn the regent. Clearly, that was the only thing to be done, since I could not betray the duchess.

I sauntered carelessly towards the group of guards who stood at the entrance of the hall which led to the rear of the building. There were six of them, and they were chatting among themselves. I saw with satisfaction that the hall was dark. I was within three feet of them, and still they did not suspect me. I gathered myself for a spring.

“Take care, gentlemen,” cried the shrill voice of the duchess, “M. de Brancas is going to escape!”

But she was too late, for even as she spoke I sprang at the guards, hurled back two that barred the way, and disappeared into the darkness of the hall. They were thrown into confusion for a moment, and in that moment I reached the rear door and felt with joy that it yielded to my touch. As I slammed it after me a fusillade of shots rang out in the hallway, but I was in the court. Blessing the chance which had made me familiar with the place, I hastened towards the little gate, found it, and inserted the key in the lock. I heard the door behind me open and a chorus of excited cries.

“There he is!” yelled some one. “He is escaping! Fire!”

But I had the gate open and was in the street beyond. An agony of apprehension seized me. Suppose the horse should not be there. Suppose I should not find it in time. Yes, there it was, stamping its feet impatiently in the darkness. I reached it and with my sword cut the rope with which it was fastened just as my pursuers poured through the gate into the little street. In an instant I was in the saddle, without taking time to sheathe my sword, and the horse was off like a flash. There was a roar of muskets and I felt a sharp pain in my left shoulder, but my horse kept on and turned the corner into the Rue d’Echelle. I swayed in the saddle, but the shock passed, and in a moment I was riding firmly, my heart leaping at the rapid motion. And I set my teeth together as I determined, come what might, to save the regent.

CHAPTER XVIII
A RIDE THROUGH THE NIGHT

The streets were still filled with people, kept abroad apparently by rumors of the Spanish plot, and I was compelled to draw rein and go at a slower gait as I turned into the Rue St. Louis. Skirting the quays and crossing the river, I was soon in the suburbs of Paris and comparatively safe from pursuit. Here the extreme darkness delayed me as the crowds had in the busier portion of the city, but I knew that the distance to St. Cloud was only about six miles and that the regent could not reach the trap that had been set for him for an hour at least. So I gave the horse his head, confident that I should yet be able to defeat this last resort of the duchess. As I went I wondered who it was to whom she had committed this desperate mission, and to this question I could find no answer. It seemed to me an enterprise which no gentleman would undertake, and at which even a rogue would pause unless he were already without the pale of the law and so with little to lose. But that Madame du Maine would stoop to use such an instrument, even in her extremity, I could not believe. So I put the problem behind me and addressed myself to the question in hand, that of reaching St. Cloud in time.

I had one morning during my first week in Paris amused myself by loitering about the barrier and watching the arrival and departure of carriages on the Versailles road, and though I had never been over this road, I had little doubt that I should be able to find the way without difficulty. So my heart was light as I passed through the gloomy faubourgs, seemingly inhabited only by shadows, which slunk along under the walls of the houses. It was not until this moment that I realized what the failure of the plot meant to Richelieu, but even upon this point I soon felt more at ease, for perchance if I succeeded in saving the regent’s life he might be more inclined to listen to me.

The flare of a torch at the end of the street brought me from my revery, and I pulled my horse to a sudden halt and peered through the darkness ahead. I could dimly discern the barrier, and my heart seemed to stop as I saw that the gates were closed and that two sentries were pacing up and down in front of them. It would seem that I myself was in a trap.

I slid from my horse, led him to a side street, tied him, and then moved cautiously forward to examine the situation. Owing to the darkness I drew quite close to the gates without being discovered, and concealed myself behind a flight of steps which projected from one of the houses. As I had seen before, two sentries were guarding the gates, and had they been alone I might have had some chance of overpowering them. But from the guard-house at the side came the sound of laughter and the click of dice, and I knew that there were others there, who, at the first cry of alarm, would rush to the rescue of their comrades. Force, then, was not to be thought of and strategy was necessary. But by what strategy could I hope to persuade these men to allow myself and my horse to pass unquestioned, when they had doubtless received strict orders to allow no one to leave the city without close scrutiny? Here was an obstacle upon which I had not counted. In times of peace the gates were never shut, and I had thought to pass them without difficulty, but the discovery of the plot must have alarmed the authorities. At any rate, the gates were closed, and I did not doubt that some pass-word was necessary to open them.

As I was cudgelling my brains over this problem, which seemed on its face to baffle solution, I heard the rapid beat of a horse’s hoofs from the direction of the city, and a moment later a horse and rider came into view. He was riding with a fine disregard of the dangers of the loose and uneven pavement, and the sound of his rapid approach, which awoke a thousand echoes along the gloomy street, drew five or six guards from the sentry-house.

“Who goes there?” cried one of the men at the gate. “Stand, monsieur.”

“Who is in command here?” asked the new-comer, reining up his horse just in time to escape running down one of the sentries. “Quick! I have no time to lose.”

“I am, monsieur,” answered another voice from the direction of the house, and an officer hurried into the light cast by the torches over the gate. “What is it?”

“Orders for you, monsieur. You will read them at once. And now, open the gate. I have further advices for the regent, who is at Versailles.”

“The pass-word, monsieur?” said the commandant of the post.

“Rocroy,” answered the courier. “Quickly, let me pass.”

The gates were opened on the instant, and the rider put spurs to his horse and disappeared into the darkness of the road without. The gates were shut again, and the commandant retired to the guard-house to read his orders.

In an instant I saw my opportunity. I crept along the street until I reached my horse. Quickly mounting, I turned him down a side street, and came out again a little distance away on the road by which the courier had come. With a touch of the spur I urged my horse into a gallop, and approached the gate precisely as the first courier had done.

“Open!” I cried. “On the king’s service.”

“Pardieu,” growled the sentry, “it seems to me there are many couriers passing here to-night. Something must be afoot. The pass-word, if you please.”

“Rocroy,” I answered.

“All right, my friend, wait a moment,” and he placed his hand on one of the gates and half opened it as the commandant came running from the house, his orders still in his hand.

“Hold, Batard!” he cried to the sentry, “I wish to see this gentleman.” The man paused, still holding the gate half open.

“Let me see,” he continued, holding the paper up to the light and scanning it closely. “About twenty—gray suit—gray cloak—light moustache—light hair—mounted on black horse—” he looked at me for a moment keenly. “You cannot pass, monsieur,” he said. “It seems to me that you are Monsieur de Brancas, whom I have just received an order to arrest and hold at all hazard. Close the gate, Batard.”

But I had understood before he finished. I drove my spurs deep into the horse’s flanks, and with one bound upset the fellow who was still holding the half-opened gate. At the same instant the horse struck the gate, the force of the shock swinging it still farther open. We were through the opening before the guards had time to realize that I was escaping and plunged into the darkness without the walls. For the third time that night I knew that I should receive a volley in the rear, and I bent low in my saddle as the shots rang out behind me. Luckily, the rascals were too astonished to aim accurately, and the bullets whistled harmlessly over me. But there might be a pursuit, and I did not allow my horse to slacken his pace until the barrier was far behind.

As I rode I reflected upon this new perfidy of the duchess, for that she had furnished Hérault the description which had been sent to the Versailles gate I did not doubt, and was amazed anew at the daring and ingenuity of this woman, who knew how to use even her enemies in accomplishing her ends. At last, believing myself safe from pursuit, I drew up and looked about me. It was lighter here than in the narrow streets of the city, and the moon was just peeping over the horizon, but still I could see little. I had been delayed not less than half an hour at the barrier and knew that I had no time to lose, so I put spurs to my horse again and continued rapidly onward. In a few moments I came to a place where the road forked. Which was the road to Versailles, the right or the left? I did not know, and seeing no way of finding out, chose the left at a hazard and continued on. I had not ridden far when I saw at the side of the road ahead of me a dim light. As I drew nearer I perceived that it came from the window of a low and squalid hut. Here, perhaps, I might be able to gain the information I sought. I rode my horse up to the door, and, drawing a pistol from the holster, rapped with its butt.

There was silence for a moment within the house, and then the door slowly opened. As it did so, I was astonished to see that the candle which had been burning a moment before had been extinguished.

“What is it, monsieur?” asked a voice from the darkness within.

“Is this the road to Versailles?” I questioned.

“No, monsieur,” answered the voice, without hesitation; “you doubtless took the wrong road at the forks a mile back. Return there, monsieur, and take the right-hand road. Follow it straight ahead and it will lead you to Versailles.”

“Many thanks,” I answered, and turned my horse’s head. As I did so, I heard the click of a pistol within the room.

“Who goes to Versailles at this hour and for what?” cried another voice, which I seemed to recognize and yet could not place. “Hold, monsieur,” it continued; “do not move. I have you covered with my pistol and I never miss.”

There was a note of braggartry in the voice which refreshed my memory.

“Ah, it is Cartouche,” I said. “I wish you good-evening, monsieur.”

“And who may you be?” he asked. “You have the best of me, monsieur?”

“Doubtless,” I laughed. “You meet so many people, and usually in the dark. But you may, perhaps, remember an encounter some nights back with a man who was lost in Paris, and who was saved from your rascals only by the timely arrival of the Duc de Richelieu.”

“By my soul, yes,” he answered. “I have cause to remember it, since I lost three sturdy rogues. Are you that man?”

“I am he,” and I smiled down at the invisible form within the doorway, for I could imagine the expression which must be upon his face, “and I am glad of the opportunity of a word with you. You do not know, perhaps, that Richelieu is a prisoner in the Bastille and that his head is in great danger?”

“No, I did not know it.”

“It is so, nevertheless. He told me that he did you a service once and that you have not forgotten it.”

“That is so, monsieur,” said Cartouche.

“Perhaps you will now have opportunity to repay that kindness.”

“Perhaps,” he assented. “If the worst comes to the worst a rescue in the Place de Greve is not impossible. It has been done before.”

“And may be done again,” I cried, “if you can muster fifty rogues who are not afraid of steel.”

“Trust me for that,” answered Cartouche, quietly. “I can muster a hundred such if necessary. But why is M. de Richelieu imprisoned, monsieur?”

“Simply because the regent wishes it,” I said. “Richelieu has done nothing.”

“Ah!” and Cartouche remained for a moment thoughtful. “Well, monsieur,” he said, at last, in a tone full of significance, “I do not believe we shall need to have recourse to a rescue of that character. The matter will soon adjust itself.”

“Adjust itself? But how?” I questioned, in amazement.

“No matter,” and Cartouche laughed, a short dry laugh. “Only, monsieur, should a rescue become necessary, you may count upon me.”

“Very well,” I said. “I shall see you again, then, if there is need,” and I turned my horse back in the direction from which I had come.

“Wait a moment, monsieur,” he called, with a good-humored chuckle, coming out of the house and putting up his pistol. “You are already on the road to Versailles. It is one of the principles of our business never to tell the truth if it can be avoided. Continue straight ahead and you will reach St. Cloud. Ten leagues farther is Versailles.”

I turned my horse about with a jerk.

“Does the road run through a wood near here?” I asked, as I took a new hold on the bridle.

“Not half a league farther on, monsieur,” he answered, in a surprised voice, and I was off before he could say more. As I glanced back over my shoulder I saw him standing there still staring after me, and then, as though struck by a sudden idea, turn and vanish within the cabin. I had need of haste, for eleven o’clock could not be far distant. But the horse Madame du Maine had provided was a good one, and I laughed as I pictured to myself how she must be tearing her hair at the thought that it was she who had given me the means of saving the regent. The moon had risen clear of the trees while I was parleying with Cartouche and flooded the country with noonday brightness. Fearing no pitfalls in this wide and level road, I spurred onward, peering ahead for the wood of which Cartouche had spoken, but of which I could see no sign. Once I thought I heard the beat of horses’ hoofs behind me, but when I turned in my saddle I saw no one, and concluded that they were merely the echo of my own. The minutes passed, and finally, to my great relief, away before me I saw that the white road seemed to disappear in the darkness, as though cut off at the entrance to a tunnel. This, then, was the wood, and with new ardor, for I had begun to fear that Cartouche had misled me, I galloped towards it. The road flew past under my horse like some gigantic ribbon, and in a moment I was in the shadow of the trees.

Here I paused. I did not know how far the wood extended, nor did I know at what point the ambush had been prepared. The only thing to be done, evidently, was to ride to the other side and stop the regent and his party before they entered it. I proceeded cautiously, the dust deadening the hoofbeats of my horse, for I did not know at what moment I myself might be greeted by a volley from the roadside. At last, far down the avenue ahead, I saw the road opening out into the plain, and at the same moment I again heard the sound of swiftly galloping horses in my rear. This time there was no mistaking the sound, and as I turned, I saw a troop of three or four just entering the wood. As I looked at them the mysterious words of Cartouche flashed into my head. Could it be that it was to him the duchess had confided the task of assassinating the regent, and that he had not suspected my purpose until too late to stop me? The thought made me drive the spurs once more into the flanks of my horse, and as I did so I heard again that clear, sharp whistle which Cartouche had used once before to summon his men to attack me. Almost before the sound had died away under the trees there came a flash of fire from the roadside, a ringing report, and my horse stumbled and nearly fell, then continued slowly onward, limping badly. I heard the horses of my pursuers rapidly drawing nearer, and even at that moment I saw ahead of me down the road another little troop approaching from the direction of Versailles, and knew it was the regent and three or four companions. Would I be in time? Would my horse carry me out of the forest? The troop behind me was dangerously near.

“Stop, monsieur!” cried a voice, which I knew to be that of Cartouche. “Stop or we fire!”

Without answering, I threw myself forward upon my horse’s neck and again drove in the spurs. I could hear the poor brute’s breath coming in gasps, and from the trembling of his body I knew he was almost done. But it was no time to spare him, and the white road gleaming in the moonlight just ahead was so near—so near.

Again Cartouche cried out for me to halt, and again I did not answer.

I glanced ahead and saw that the regent’s party had apparently heard the tramp of our horses, for they had stopped to listen. In an instant I had seized a pistol from the holster and fired it in the air. They would hear the report and at least be prepared to face the danger which threatened them. As my shot rang out through the still night air I heard a savage oath behind me. There came a crash of pistols and a great blow seemed to strike me in the head. I reeled in the saddle, caught myself as I was falling, and held on. The earth seemed whirling under me, strange lights danced before my eyes. I shook them from me with clenched teeth; I was out in the moonlight; my horse still staggered on. And then, as in a dream, I saw the regent, sitting on his horse calmly in the middle of the road.

“Save yourself, monsieur!” I cried. “Save yourself! They would kill you!”

I felt the horse slipping from under me, the sky grew black, something in my head seemed to burst, and I knew no more.

CHAPTER XIX
D’ANCENIS TELLS THE STORY

I lay for some time without stirring, looking fixedly at the window in front of me and wondering in a vague way what had happened. I could see the sun shining brightly on some shrubbery outside the window. The view was stopped by a wall, and a dull and monotonous roar, which I recognized as belonging to the city, was in my ears. I perceived I was in bed. A white, narrow bed. I turned my head slowly and gazed about the room. It was small and plainly furnished, but seemed clean and comfortable. The thought forced its way into my mind that I had never before been in this room. How, then, did I get there?

I closed my eyes again, and for a long time my brain refused to grapple with the problem. It seemed as though coming back from a country full of mist, and clouds of the mist still clung to it. Finally, with supreme effort of will, I opened my eyes again, and again looked through the window and about the room. This time I could think more clearly. No, I had never been here before, and the question repeated itself, How, then, did I get here?

And still I could get no farther than the question. I heard a door open, and some one tiptoed to the bedside. I found myself looking up into a sweet, colorless face. It was surrounded by a black wimple, and I remembered dimly that I had seen nuns wearing such. The eyes looked down for a moment into mine and were then withdrawn. As I still lay staring at the ceiling, another face appeared before me. It was the face of a man whom I did not know. Or, wait a moment, I had seen it before somewhere, but my brain seemed to recoil at the effort at recollection.

“He is doing nicely,” I heard a voice say. “He will soon be quite well. The danger was that he would never regain consciousness.”

Again the face was withdrawn, and I felt an arm under my head lifting me up. A cup was pressed to my lips.

“Drink,” said a voice, the man’s voice, “it will do you good.”

I drank obediently, almost mechanically. Then I was lowered again, and the arm was removed. A great heaviness oppressed my eyelids. I did not struggle against it, but yielded to it gladly and drifted away into the land of mist.

When I opened my eyes again the sun was still shining without the window; nothing in the room was changed. But my head seemed quite clear and I could think without weariness. What was this room in which I found myself? I looked around and examined it attentively. A small room, twelve feet square, perhaps, the bed, two chairs, a small table, and a stove in one corner the only furniture. There were a number of bottles and glasses on the table. I raised my hand to my head, surprised at the effort it cost me, and was astonished to find a bandage about my forehead. What had happened? Had I been injured?

And in a flash it all came back to me,—the arrest, the ride through the night, the encounter with Cartouche, the flash of pistols and then darkness. I must have been wounded in the head. But the regent,—was he safe? Richelieu,—where was he? A thousand questions surged into my brain at once. I raised myself upon my elbow and cried aloud. The door opened in a moment, and a woman entered, the same woman whose face I had already seen bending over me.

“Monsieur is awake, then,” she said, smiling at me kindly, but forcing me gently back upon my pillow. “Monsieur is better.”

“Yes, yes, I am better,” I answered. “But what has happened? Where am I? The regent, Richelieu, Madame du Maine——”

She laid her hand upon my lips.

“Have patience,” she said. “I will call the doctor.”

She left the room while I still lay overwhelmed by my thoughts. She was soon back, and with her was the man who had accompanied her once before, and this time I recognized him as Levau, the surgeon who had bound up my shoulder at the Café Procope.

“Good-morning, M. de Brancas,” he cried, in a jovial voice, as he came to my bedside. “I see you are doing famously and will soon be on your feet again. How do you feel?”

“I feel no pain,” I answered, “but am very weak.”

“No pain in the head, eh? Well, that is good. Come, now, let me see the wound,” and he untied the bandage from about my temples, held up my head and apparently examined a wound at the back. “Upon my word,” he said, after a moment, replacing the bandage, “I have never seen anything prettier. Ah, monsieur, it is pure blood that tells, and you are an ideal patient. Why, that stab you received in the shoulder the other day has left nothing but a scar, and in a week from now this little scratch will have ceased to trouble you.”

“But what is it?” I asked, scarcely able to restrain my impatience while this examination was in progress. “I was shot, I know that; but how did I get here, and where am I and what has been done with my friends?”

“One question at a time, M. de Brancas,” and Levau stood smiling down at me. “You were brought back to Paris from the place on the roadside where the bullet which struck you in the head laid you. This is the Hotel Dieu, and you have to thank the nursing of Sister Angelica here that you are alive to-day. The bullet did not enter the skull, but simply stunned you,—a glance blow. It looked for a time, however, as though you were never going to open your eyes again. You had also a bullet in your shoulder, but that was a mere nothing.”

“How long have I been here, then?” I asked.

“Six days, monsieur,” and Levau still smiled.

“Six days!” I gasped. “But tell me, monsieur, what has become of Richelieu, of Madame du Maine, and of all the others.”

“Now there, M. de Brancas, you are getting beyond me,” and Levau waved his hands deprecatingly. “I do not meddle with politics. When you ask me concerning your injury I have my answers ready on my lips, but when you go into politics I am all at sea. But wait a moment,” he added, kindly; “I think I can bring you some one who has inquired after you every day and who can answer all these questions,” and he left the room. In a moment he returned, bringing with him a man, who rushed towards my bed, his face alight with pleasure.

“D’Ancenis!” I cried.

“Yes, de Brancas, it is I,” and the marquis took my hand with the heartiest of clasps. “I cannot tell how pleased I am to hear that you will soon be well again. I had just come to inquire after you when Levau was summoned by the nurse, and I was imagining the most horrible things when he returned with the news that you are so much better.”

“Thank you, monsieur,” I answered, more moved than I cared to show by his evident concern. “But tell me, where are my friends?”

D’Ancenis glanced questioningly at Levau.

The latter nodded encouragingly.

“Tell him, monsieur,” he said. “It will do him no harm to talk, and worry might retard his recovery, although the effects of the injury are almost passed. You will excuse me, gentlemen,” and, followed by the nurse, he left the room.

“Very well, then,” said d’Ancenis, drawing a chair to the bedside and again taking my hand. “Proceed with your questions, de Brancas.”

“First,” I said, after a moment’s pause to enable me to marshal my thoughts in some kind of order, “is the regent safe?”

“Quite safe,” and d’Ancenis smiled more than ever. “That night ride of yours, my friend, did not deserve to be otherwise than successful. I have heard the regent tell the story a dozen times. He and his party heard first the rapid beat of horses’ hoofs. They paused to listen, when from the wood in front of them came a rider, clinging to his horse’s neck and fired a pistol into the air. There was a volley of shots behind him and he was seen to reel and almost fall. He caught himself by a supreme effort, clung to the saddle until ten paces from the regent, cried to him to save himself, and dropped senseless from his horse and rolled to the side of the road. It was over in a moment, the scoundrels who had shot him remaining concealed in the shelter of the trees. The regent, suspecting some treachery, immediately drew his pistols, as did the gentlemen with him, and retreated until some distance from the wood, so that surprise was impossible. Then a courier from Paris, who had reached him a few moments before, was sent back half a league to St. Cloud for re-enforcements. As soon as these arrived the wood was entered, but no one was found. The regent examined the body by the road, and at once recognized you, my friend. He knew not what to make of it, but ordered you picked up and brought back to Paris. There he heard from the commandant of the Versailles gate how you had got through. A little later, he learned from me how you had escaped from the hall and of the efforts made by Madame du Maine to stop you, for she was not so circumspect in this affair as is usual with her, and betrayed herself completely. The regent can put two and two together as well as any man, and he was not long in arriving at a conclusion. This conclusion became a certainty when a confession was secured from one of Cartouche’s rogues, who attempted to re-enter Paris the next morning and was captured. He told all of the details of the ambuscade, and how Cartouche himself, with his companions, was to have attacked the regent should he get past the wood alive. Cartouche has left Paris and is across the frontier by this time. Really, de Brancas,” and d’Ancenis paused a moment to look at me, “you are a devil of a fellow. This was quite in line with your escape from the Bastille.”

“And Richelieu?” I asked.

“Is still in prison, and likely to remain there for some time to come, to say no worse. His offence is nothing less than treason, monsieur, and the regent has sworn to have his head.”

I groaned aloud.

“’Tis what I feared,” I said. “I must get up,” and I raised myself on one elbow.

“Gently, gently, de Brancas,” and d’Ancenis pushed me back again, nor did I resist him greatly, for I was weaker than I had thought. “Do you think one man, already half dead, would be able to liberate Richelieu? You propose to take the Bastille by storm, I suppose, single-handed and alone. I should not be surprised to see you undertake such an exploit.”

I remained for a moment silent.

“Tell me the rest,” I said, finally. “Madame du Maine, Cellamare, Mlle. de Launay,—what has happened to them?”

“Cellamare was conducted out of Paris and started for Spain under a strong escort the morning after his arrest,” answered d’Ancenis. “He protested, of course, but it was of no use. The papers which were found in his possession exposed all the details of the plot, which was marvellously well arranged, and which almost makes one admire the duchess. Madame du Maine submitted very quietly until she found she was to be taken to the citadel of Dijon, when she fought like a tigress, but it was to no avail, and she was safely lodged in the dungeon, vowing a hundred kinds of vengeance against her jailers. Mlle. de Launay wished to accompany her mistress, but the regent was afraid to allow those two women to remain together, so mademoiselle was given a cell in the Bastille, as were all the other prisoners arrested at the Tuileries. We found Polignac lying senseless on the floor, and he was quite hysterical for a time, protesting his innocence. De Mesmes did the same, but both were silenced when they were confronted by their own statements of their share in the conspiracy. The Duc du Maine was also arrested.”

“The Duc du Maine?” I cried; “but he knew nothing about it. I have never even seen him.”

“I can well believe it,” and d’Ancenis smiled. “I was deputed to arrest him, and I found him very harmlessly engaged in looking over his collection of snuffboxes at Sceaux. He was astounded when I gave him an intimation of what the duchess had been doing, and was very indignant that she had caused him to be sent to prison. He was taken to the Château de Dourleans, stopping at every shrine along the road to pray, for he was firmly convinced that the regent was going to have him killed. The regent has little cause to love him, and will doubtless try to make a case against him.”

“But he cannot succeed,” I said, confidently. “There will be a hundred persons ready to testify in the duke’s behalf.”

“That is all the news,” concluded d’Ancenis. “Paris has been talking of it for a week and the topic is not yet exhausted. Shall I tell you, my friend, of what they talk most? It is of your ride, and there are fifty pretty women ready to worship you. There has been one in particular who has made it a point to inquire of me every day how you are getting on.”

“And who is she?” I asked, with leaping heart.

D’Ancenis looked down at me quizzically.

“’Tis more serious than I had thought,” he said, laughing. “There will be many to envy you your good fortune, de Brancas.”

“But her name?” I asked again.

“What, man,” cried my tormentor, gayly, “would you have me be indiscreet? No, no. You must find out the name for yourself. Ask the lady of whom you are thinking and see what she says.”

I caught at his hand, but he eluded me, and laughed merrily as he looked back from the door.

“Get well quickly, my friend,” he said. “Do not keep her waiting,” and he was gone.

But I did not for a moment question the reply my heart had given me, and when Levau looked in on me again a short time later, he found me looking so contented that he laughed with pleasure.

“In faith, monsieur,” he cried, “I begin to believe that Captain d’Ancenis is a better physician than I. What magic did he use?”

I merely smiled.

“When can I get out of this?” I asked.

“Oh, we will see about that,” he answered, his professional air back upon him in an instant. “Three or four days will tell the story.”

“Three or four days? Nonsense!” I exclaimed. “Why, I am strong enough to get out of bed this moment,” and I started as if to rise.

“Patience, patience, monsieur,” and Levau held me back. “Suppose I say to-morrow, provided that you pass a good night and are as much stronger in the morning as I expect you to be?”

“Agreed. And now cannot I have something to eat? I am marvellously hungry.”

“As much as you like,” cried Levau, heartily, and he hurried away to send my supper to me. I did it ample justice and enjoyed it greatly, then lay for a long time thinking over all that d’Ancenis had told me, but more particularly of Louise, and finally dropped asleep.

I felt like a new man the next morning. Save for a little soreness at the back of my head and in my shoulder, and a slight weakness in my legs when I tried to walk, I was as well as ever. My clothing was brought me, and I walked around the room leaning on Levau’s arm. He seemed indefatigable in his attentions, and after ten minutes of this exercise he pronounced himself satisfied with my condition. Breakfast never tasted better than did that one, which Levau ate with me, and as soon as I had swallowed it I was anxious to depart, for Richelieu’s danger weighed heavily upon me, and I knew not how soon the regent might take action. Cartouche’s flight from Paris had cut off all hope of a rescue at the last moment, even had the scoundrel been inclined to aid me, which was now exceeding doubtful, and whatever was to be done must be done by me alone.

After a little demur Levau consented to my departure, provided I would take his carriage and not attempt to walk. I agreed, of course, and was surprised when he prepared to accompany me.

“Is it that I am under arrest?” I asked, an explanation for his extreme attentiveness coming to me suddenly.

“Not at all, monsieur,” he answered, readily. “It is only that I have sworn you shall recover and that my reputation is at stake. I am not going to take any chance of failure.”

“I hope that some day I shall be able to repay you for your kindness, monsieur,” I said, moved by the evident sincerity of the man. “At present I am not able to do so, nor to more than thank the nurse to whom you say I owe my life.”

“Think no more of it, M. de Brancas, I pray you,” he protested, with his familiar gesture. “Let there be no talk of payment. Indeed, I have already been more than paid by the persons who have taken an interest in your case.”

“And who were they, monsieur?” I asked, with some surprise.

But he merely waved his hand again and led me down to the coach, which was waiting. The drive across Paris, the fresh air of the morning, and the sight of the busy city were to me like a tonic, and I felt my strength returning with every moment. Levau looked at me with evident satisfaction.

“You will do,” he said. “With that color in your cheeks I have no longer any fear for the result.”

We soon reached the Hotel de Richelieu, and the joy of Jacques, who ran down the steps to welcome me, was touching to see. He would have had me carried into the house, but I would have none of it, and insisted on walking in myself. Levau left me at the door, admonishing me to rest as much as possible for a day or two, and to summon him if there were any unfavorable symptoms. Jacques led the way to the room on the first floor where I had so often dined. He arranged a chair for me, brought me a glass of wine, set a stool under my feet, and would have kissed my hand had I permitted it.

“There, there, Jacques,” I protested, as he asked me for the hundredth time if there was anything else he could do for me. “I am not going to die, my good friend. In a day or two I shall be well as ever and then we will see what can be done for Richelieu.”

“I knew you would say that, monsieur!” he cried. “I have heard of your wonderful exploit of the other evening. Who in Paris has not heard of it? Nothing seems to stop you, monsieur, when once you get started.”

I thought to myself that the walls of the Bastille were likely to stop me very effectually, but I did not want to damp his confidence, so I merely smiled, and after a time he left me alone while he went to give orders for dinner.

An hour passed, during which he looked in upon me once or twice, and I was dozing before the fire when I heard the door open again. Supposing it to be Jacques I did not turn, but in an instant I was startled by a hand upon my shoulder.

“Richelieu!” I cried, springing from my chair, my weakness vanishing as if by magic, and I caught his hand. “But what miracle is this? Have you escaped, man, and in broad daylight? You must not remain here. Come, a horse, and in an hour you will be safe.”

“Ah, do not fear, de Brancas!” he exclaimed, bitterly, dropping into a chair as though utterly weary. “I am quite safe. I have no need to leave Paris.”

I gazed at him a moment in amazement. Never had I seen that pleasant face so wretched. His hair was disordered, his eyes bloodshot, his clothing disarranged.

“What is it?” I asked, with a sudden fear at my heart. “What has happened?”

“You do not know, then?” and he turned his eyes wearily towards me.

“On my honor, no.”

“It was the regent who released me,” and he paused as one pauses at the brink of a chasm which must be crossed.

“The regent?” I was too astonished to say more.

“Yes, the regent. But he had his price. It was not out of kindness of heart. It was because he knew that it was worse than death. Do you know what his price was, de Brancas? I will tell you. His price was his daughter. To save me Charlotte has agreed to marry the Duc de Modena. The marriage takes place to-morrow morning at the Palais Royal, and she sets out at once for Italy.”

CHAPTER XX
THE SECRET STAIRCASE

I fell back into my chair and gazed at Richelieu in speechless horror. This was a blow I had not foreseen and which I was totally unprepared to meet. The regent, it seemed, had scored a second time. In fact, he appeared to hold all the winning cards.

“I suspected that Orleans would try a game of this kind,” continued the duke, after a moment. “You remember, I warned you against it, de Brancas.”

“Yes, I remember,” I groaned, “and yet I did nothing to prevent it.”

Richelieu arose quickly and came towards me.

“Believe me,” he said, taking my hand, “I am not blaming you in the least, my friend. But you have a bandage about your head. You have been wounded, then? Forgive me for allowing my own affairs to blind me so.”

I answered with a pressure of the hand.

“You have not heard?” I asked, quickly.

“I have heard nothing,” said Richelieu. “They permitted me to receive no one, to speak to no one. They would not even permit me to wave my handkerchief to you, as you know. What has happened?”

As briefly as I could I told him the story of Madame du Maine’s arrest and repeated what I had already heard from d’Ancenis.

“This is all very well,” said Richelieu, when I had finished, “but you have not yet told me how you received your wound, de Brancas. Come, my friend, I suspect another of your dare-devil adventures. Tell me about it.”

So I told him the story of my night ride and the rescue of the regent. Richelieu heard me with sparkling eyes.

“’Twas well done!” he cried. “By my word, I would I had been there. You are right, de Brancas, assassination is something no gentleman can countenance. I am surprised that Madame du Maine should go so far. She must indeed have been desperate.” He remained silent for some moments, musing deeply. “So the regent was too quick for us and everything is known,—even my treason, for so it must appear to him. In faith, I do not wonder he had sworn to have my head. And yet,” he added, “I would he had taken it rather than that Charlotte should pay this price.”

“How did you learn of it?” I questioned.

“An hour ago,” said Richelieu, “a guard came to my cell and told me to follow him. I did not doubt that my destination was the Place de Greve, but I had found imprisonment so irksome that I was ready to welcome any change, even the block. Besides, I was not sorry to have the opportunity of showing the regent how a gentleman should die. I was taken to the office of Maison-Rouge and left there alone with him. He told me that the regent had ordered my release, and when I remained too astonished to reply, he handed me a note.

“‘’Tis from the regent,’ he said.

“I opened the note, suspecting some new blow. You may guess my feelings when I saw that it was a command to be present to-morrow morning at the Palais Royal to witness the marriage by proxy of Charlotte and the Duc de Modena. Across the bottom of the note was written, ‘The price paid for the head of M. le Duc de Richelieu.’ I tore the note into a thousand pieces. I told Maison-Rouge that I would not accept the price and commanded him to take me back to my cell. He merely smiled, and said that the price had already been accepted by the regent, since my head belonged no longer to me but to him, and calling two guards, he had me led to the outer gate, which was closed behind me.”

“I’ll wager ’twas the first time in the history of the Bastille that a prisoner had to be forced to leave it,” I cried. “Come, monsieur, do not despair. The regent has overleaped himself in releasing you so soon. The price may have been accepted, but it is not yet paid.”

“Not yet paid?”

“No. And furthermore, it need never be paid if you do not wish it.”

“You have a plan, then?” cried Richelieu, his face brightening.

“Perhaps.”

“Come, let us have it,” and he clasped my hand again. “I should have remembered that I had your clear brain and loyal heart still to rely upon.”

“Answer me one question, M. le Duc,” I said. “Suppose the princess and yourself were in a carriage speeding towards the frontier. Suppose your flight was not discovered for eight or ten hours. Do you think you would be safe?”

“Safe, de Brancas? Why, man, with one hour’s start we should be safe. I have a dozen horses the like of which are not to be found in France, not even in the regent’s stables.”

“And where are these horses?” I asked.

“In my stables here.”

“Then, my dear friend,” I cried, springing to my feet, “consider it done. At ten o’clock to-night Mlle. de Valois and yourself will set out from Paris. In two days you will be safe at Mons, that is, if you are permitted to pass the frontier.”

“Trust me for that,” said Richelieu. “A thousand pistoles will accomplish wonders. The only thing I do not understand, my friend, is how you will manage to get Charlotte into the carriage with me.”

“M. le Duc,” I queried, “do you imagine for a moment that the thought of this marriage pleases her?”

“No more than it does myself.”

“Would she not, then, welcome an opportunity of escaping it?”

“Oh, I believe so!” cried Richelieu.

“Well, trust me, M. le Duc, you shall offer her that opportunity to-night. But we have no time to lose and there is much to do. Leave the details of the plan to me.”

“I do not understand, but I trust you fully, my friend,” said Richelieu, and asked no further questions.

A relay of horses was started to St. Quentin and a second to Compeigne, to await the arrival of the carriage containing the duke and his companion. The lightest and most comfortable carriage in his stables was brought out and thoroughly overhauled. I myself saw that it was piled with cushions and equipped with everything that could add to the comfort or convenience of the travellers. I provided for every possible contingency of which I could think, and personally interviewed the man whom Richelieu had selected to drive until I was satisfied that he was thoroughly acquainted with the road and that he was no coward. The tumult caused by the discovery of the plot had quieted down, and on inquiry I found that the gates of the city were again open day and night, so that Richelieu would have no difficulty in passing the barrier. We decided that the carriage should take the most direct route and trust to speed, as it was important above everything that it should reach the frontier ahead of any of the regent’s emissaries. Richelieu collected together all the money he had and stored it in the coach. I added a sword, a brace of pistols, and a musket, and a similar equipment to the top of the coach for the use of the driver. To the rear was strapped a case containing changes of clothing. At last I could think of nothing more.

All this had taken time, and evening had come before the final arrangements were completed. Then Jacques lighted the candles and summoned us to dinner, a summons which I was not sorry to obey, for the day’s work had wearied me greatly. He had provided a feast of great elaborateness as a farewell to his master, but Richelieu seemed too nervous to enjoy it. As for me, I was so certain of success that I felt no great anxiety.

“Come, this will not do,” I remonstrated, seeing that he was merely playing with the food. “You must eat, my friend. You will have need of courage before you reach Mons, and I know of nothing which so tends to make a coward of a man as an empty stomach.”

“You are right,” he answered, “but if you knew the anxiety I am suffering at this moment you would not expect me to eat. Do you really believe we shall succeed?”

“M. le Duc,” I said, earnestly, “success will depend largely upon yourself. I agree to bring you into the presence of Mlle. de Valois. If you can persuade her to flee with you, well and good, we succeed; but if you cannot do this, we must retire defeated. Come, I drink to your success.”

“And I to yours,” he answered. “Forgive me, de Brancas, for again thinking only of myself. I hope with all my heart that you will be successful.”

I bowed with brimming eyes, for he had touched me closely.

“It may be long before we dine together again, monsieur,” I said. “May I assure you of my devoted friendship?”

“I have no need of such assurance,” and Richelieu arose from his chair and came to the side of mine. “I have already had a hundred proofs of it, in return for which I have done so little.”

“Oh, do not say that,” and I faced this man whom I had come to love with a great tenderness. “What should I have done in Paris but for you?”

And as I looked into his eyes I knew that here was one whose heart was brave and loyal.

Too moved to say more, we continued the meal in silence, each busy with his own thoughts. Mine were of Louise Dacour, and I wondered what the future had in store for us. A sudden thought occurred to me.

“Mlle. Dacour may choose to accompany the princess,” I said.

“And if she does, you will join us, will you not, de Brancas?” asked Richelieu, quickly. “Believe me, my friend, nothing would please me more than to have you with me, but I was loath to ask you to leave Paris while she remained behind.”

I consented, and it was agreed that I should join the duke at Brussels within a week if Mlle. de Valois took her companion with her. And if, I added to myself, the regent did not see fit to wreak upon my head the wrath which he would doubtless feel towards Richelieu. But of this I said nothing.

“Are you sure that you are strong enough to undertake this expedition?” asked Richelieu, as we arose from table.

I laughed at him.

“You shall see, if it comes to a question of using our swords,” I said. And then I remembered the bandage and my hand went to my head. “I cannot wear this ridiculous thing, I must remove it,” and I started to do so.

“Not for a moment!” cried the duke, springing to my side and seizing my hands. “Who can tell what hurt it would do you? Leave it there, Jean, or I swear I shall not go a step outside this house to-night.”

“But,” and I stopped. I could not tell him that it was fear of Louise’s laughing eyes which moved me.

Richelieu understood in an instant.

“It is an honorable wound,” he said, “received in an honorable cause. Why seek to hide it? It is the sight of wounds like that which moves a woman’s heart. They will find your pale, bandaged head very interesting, Jean, believe me.”

And so I left the bandage where it was.

Nine o’clock came, the carriage was waiting, we entered it, and drove by a circuitous route to the back of the Palais Royal gardens. Here we left it, and instructed the coachman to drive slowly up and down until he should be called. That done, I led the way under the shade of the chestnuts towards the palace. Richelieu asked no questions, but I could see that he was pale with anxiety. We mounted the low wall enclosing the little park which we had entered once before under the guidance of Mlle. Dacour, dropped down on the other side, and turned to the right.

“Ah, ah,” whispered Richelieu, “I begin to see. You hope to gain entrance by the secret staircase. But can you find the spring?”

“I believe so,” I answered, in the same low tone. “I was watching Mlle. Dacour closely when she opened the door for us, and know about where it is.” As I spoke I felt along the wall, but my fingers detected nothing. “It was near here. Have patience,” I said, for I could feel his hand on my arm trembling with suspense. Again I ran my hand over the wall, pressing gently on two or three small irregularities, but without result. “Come, I will try again,” and a third time I examined the wall, this time more carefully and over a larger area. “Ah, I have it!” I exclaimed as I felt a yielding under my fingers, and the door swung inward.

“It was time,” said Richelieu, for as we entered another door near by opened, and hurrying feet passed along the walk, even as we pushed the door shut after us. We were in intense darkness, but I knew the way, and guiding myself by the wall, turned without hesitation towards the narrow hallway, Richelieu following close behind, his hand in mine. We found the hallway without difficulty and passed along it cautiously until we reached the end, and slowly felt our way up the little winding staircase there. The wooden wall which formed the back of the preserve closet stopped us.

“Wait a moment,” whispered Richelieu, as I began to feel for the spring, whose approximate position I had also seen. “Does Charlotte know of this visit?”

“No,” I answered; “I had no opportunity to warn her of it, else I doubt not she would have sent some one to guide us and so saved us all this trouble.”

“But,” Richelieu objected, “perhaps she will not be alone; perhaps she will resent an intrusion of this kind.”

“Very well,” I answered, losing patience a little at this unexpected wavering, which was so unlike the duke, “we can yet turn back, open the door, return to the carriage, drive to your hotel, and secure a good night’s rest before attending the wedding to-morrow morning.”

“Forgive me, de Brancas,” said Richelieu, after a moment. “I am so unstrung I scarce know what I am saying. Open the door if you can find the spring.”

I felt along the boards for two or three minutes without result. It doubtless seemed an age to Richelieu, and I could hear him breathing unevenly and shuffling his feet behind me.

“For God’s sake, de Brancas,” he said at last, in a strained whisper, “make haste! This is more than I can bear.”

I felt myself beginning to tremble in sympathy with him, and pulled myself up with a jerk, recognizing the fact that it was absolutely necessary for one of us to keep his head.

“A little patience,” I whispered; “this spring is more difficult to find than the other, and it is so devilishly dark here.”

Again I ran my hand up and down the wall. It was made of narrow boards fitted closely together. Back and forth I passed my hand over it, and just as I was beginning to despair I felt a slight inequality. I pressed it and the door opened against us. We stepped back out of the way, and in a moment were in the closet. The door shut behind us of its own accord.

The door which opened from the closet into the room beyond was not tightly closed, and through this opening we could make a partial survey of the room. It was empty in so far as we could see, and I was about to suggest that we make a cautious scrutiny of the remainder of it, when a sound as of stifled sobbing startled me.

“What is that?” I whispered.

“My God, do you not know what it is?” exclaimed Richelieu. “It is Charlotte,—Charlotte weeping over her coming sacrifice. Stay here, my friend,” and before I could do aught to prevent him he had opened the door, stepped through it, and closed it behind him. I heard a startled exclamation from the princess, and at the same instant another sound which sent a cold shiver down my back. Some one was ascending the spiral staircase with assured and regular tread. The footsteps paused for a moment without the door, then there came a click, a breath of air, and a smell as of a candle newly extinguished. I drew back into one corner of the closet, and as I did so this unknown person stepped into it and closed the secret door behind him.

CHAPTER XXI
WHERE HONOR WINS

I pressed more closely into my corner and held my breath in suspense, fearing lest even the beating of my heart would betray my presence. The new-comer paused for a moment to set down the lantern, and in that moment the voice of Richelieu penetrated to the closet.

“You are surprised to see me, Charlotte?” he was saying. “Did you think for an instant that I would permit you to be delivered to this fate which has been prepared for you?”

“Oh, M. le Duc!” cried the voice of the princess, broken by sobs, “I do but save you from one danger to find you braving another. You do not comprehend my father’s hatred. Go, I beseech you, before it is too late.”

“Yes, I shall go in a moment, Charlotte,” answered Richelieu, in a milder tone, “and you are going with me. At the back of the gardens there is a carriage waiting, with four of the fastest horses in the kingdom. In an hour we shall be far from Paris. Another day will find us safe in the Netherlands and free to live our lives together.”

There was a moment’s silence, and I could hear the deep, agitated breathing of the person who stood beside me. My hands began to tremble under the strain, and I clasped them behind me to keep them still. An increasing giddiness reminded me of my wound. The closet was insufferably close, and my face grew wet with perspiration as I realized my weakness.

“And whose plan is this?” asked Mlle. de Valois, at last.

“Can you not guess?” cried Richelieu. “It could be only one man,—the one who found a way out of the Bastille,—who has stood between me and danger a dozen times,—who even at this moment is awaiting me in the closet there.”

I crouched for a spring, expecting an instant attack from my companion in the closet, and determined to throttle him at any cost before an alarm could be given. Even as I steeled myself for the struggle I heard a startled exclamation at my side.

“Are you indeed here, M. de Brancas?” whispered a sweet voice.

“Louise, oh, Louise! is it you?” I cried, forgetting caution in the joy and great reaction of this discovery, and I stretched out my arms and drew her to me. “I was just about to spring upon you to prevent your escape,” I added, laughing out of the sheer rapture of my heart.

She did not resist my arms, but, with a long sigh, laid her head upon my breast. My blood was surging in my ears as I stooped and kissed her hair, and I felt that she was sobbing.

“What is it, my love?” I whispered.

“Oh, do you not know?” she sobbed. “Surely you have heard of the wedding to-morrow?”

“Yes,” I answered, “but that wedding will never take place. By to-morrow Richelieu and Mlle. de Valois will be far from here, speeding towards the north of France.”

“I wish so with all my heart,” and Louise drew back a little, “but it will never be, M. de Brancas.”

“What! never be?” I cried. “But I tell you that everything is prepared, that all that remains to be done is for them to descend, enter the carriage, and give the word to the driver.”

“And that is just what Charlotte d’Orleans will never do,” and though her voice was sad, it had a certain pride and dignity.

I was too astonished to reply.

“M. de Brancas,” she continued, “I know her better than do you, far better even than Richelieu. A woman has her ideals no less than a man. But listen, she herself is telling him.”

In the tumult of my own emotion I had no longer heeded what was happening in the outer room, but at this moment I heard Richelieu’s voice raised in impatient protest.

“What do you say, mademoiselle,” he cried, “that you will not go with me? And why, may I ask? Is it that you no longer love me?”

“M. le Duc,” answered the clear voice of the princess, who seemed to have recovered her composure, “it appears to me that it can no longer be a question of my love, since to save your head I have agreed to this hateful marriage. The reason is, monsieur, that I have given my word to my father, and I do not choose to break it. He might have distrusted me; he might have insisted that this marriage take place before you were released, and I should have consented without an instant’s hesitation, because I should have known that he would keep faith with me. But he chose to trust me; you were free again an hour after I had given my word. It is to his generosity you owe your presence here to-night, monsieur. My sacrifice may be the greater, but I do not choose to fall below my father.”

Richelieu remained for a moment speechless. I felt the tears starting to my eyes.

“That is grand; that is noble,” I murmured.

Louise answered by a pressure of the hand, and I knew that she also was affected no less than I.

It was Richelieu who broke the silence.

“Give me a moment for thought, mademoiselle,” he said, and we heard him pacing up and down the room.

As for me, I felt a great reverence for this woman spring to life in my heart. As I had told Madame du Maine, a woman may do anything but break her word; no woman can do that with honor, no more than any man, and my heart trembled with emotion as I heard the princess take the same high ground,—with her so far above anything of which I had conceived. I prayed that Richelieu might not fall below her. Louise was crying softly.

“Charlotte,” said Richelieu, at last, “you are tearing my heart to pieces, and yet I would not have you other than you are. I was a fool to think you would consent. But,” he continued, in a clearer voice, “I have given no promise, my honor is not engaged. I have already refused to accept this sacrifice. What is there to prevent my taking you up in my arms, opening the door of yonder closet, and with de Brancas at my back running with you to the carriage and starting for the frontier?”

Again there was a moment’s silence.

“Ah, no, no!” she cried, at last. “Do not tempt me further, Louis. What I am doing is for my own honor and for France. My father has told me that France demands it,—that it will strengthen his empire. If you knew how hard it is—how I turn with loathing from the task I have to do—you would not seek to make it harder.”

“De Brancas,” called Richelieu, “come here, my friend.”

I flung the door open and stepped into the room. Mlle. de Valois was half sitting, half lying in a large chair, her face white with suffering, her eyes luminous with a great glory. Richelieu himself was scarcely less affected. He glanced at Louise, who had come from the closet with me and who was kneeling at the side of the princess.

“Good!” he exclaimed. “I am glad to see that you are here, Mlle. Dacour. Charlotte will need a companion. Will you not accompany her?”

“I had intended doing so, M. le Duc,” answered Louise, gently, “whether she went north or south.”

“That is well,” and Richelieu bowed to her with that courtly grace which so well became him. “M. de Brancas and myself had already considered this contingency and he is to join us at Brussels in a week’s time.”

I glanced at Louise to see how she received this announcement, but seemingly she had not heard it.

“And now, de Brancas,” continued the duke, turning to me, “we must make haste. We have already remained here much too long.”

“True,” I answered. “It is your purpose, then, to forcibly carry away Mlle. de Valois?”

“Since she refuses to accompany me, yes,” and Richelieu looked me in the eyes. “Have you any other course to advise, my friend?”

I paused irresolute, glancing from one to the other. I could not choose but speak, whatever the cost might be.

“If love were the only thing; if there were not heights of honor before which love must bow,” I said, at last, and paused again. I could not go on. Let these two hearts settle the future for themselves. “M. le Duc,” I said, in a firmer voice, “it is not for me to give advice. I will do whatever you command.”

Again Richelieu walked the length of the room, his twitching face telling of the conflict raging in his breast. I went to the window and gazed out upon the night. Louise was sobbing. Only the princess remained composed. I pray heaven that my heart may never again be torn as it was in that moment.

“M. le Duc,” she said, in the same calm tone she had used before, “listen to the voice of your friend and to my voice, which, I am sure, finds an answering chord in your heart. If love were the only thing I would go with you gladly, but honor must ever outweigh love in the hearts of all true gentlemen. Tell me, Louis, I have not been deceived in you,—that you merit honor no less than love.”

Richelieu threw himself at her feet with a sob and caught her hand. I knew he had won the battle.

“Forgive me, Charlotte,” he whispered, in a choking voice; “I have played the coward, not the man. Let it be as you say, your honor and mine before all else.”

And at these words my heart went out to him, and I knew that these two loved each other with a love in which there was no taint of selfishness. Years, perhaps, would dull the sting of the wound, but for them, as for me, life would hold few sweeter memories than that of this sacred moment. I could not trust myself to turn from the window. The lights without were blurred with my tears and in my heart was a great tenderness.

The princess was the strongest of us all.

“You must go, my friend,” she said, at last. “My friend I shall always deem you,—my nearest and dearest friend,—who stood true to me in the bitterest hour of my life. Look up,—here, in my eyes. Do you see any sorrow there? Sorrow there may have been,—sorrow there may be again,—but now it is swallowed up by joy and pride in you.”

I turned to look at them. It must have been with faces so transfigured that martyrs went to the stake,—yea, Christ to His cross.

Her arms were around his neck, and she bent her head and kissed him.

“It is the last,” she said,—“the last I shall willingly give,” and she gently loosed his hands, arose, and stood from him.

“We, also, must say good-by,” said a low voice at my elbow, and I turned with a start to see Louise standing there.

“You, too, are going?” I cried, with a great fear at my heart.

“Yes, it is settled,” and she was looking into my eyes. “My place is at her side. But my sacrifice, my friend, is much less than hers. I am leaving, perhaps, people whom I love, but there is no abyss at the end of the path such as yawns before Charlotte.”

“No,” I answered, “no,” but I could say no more.

“And believe me, M. de Brancas,” she continued, placing both her hands in mine, “nothing that you have ever done—not even that bandage about your head which tells of a wound so nobly won—has pleased me as did the words you said to Richelieu. I read your heart, and I saw nothing there but loyalty and truth.”

I gazed into her eyes, which she did not seek to turn from mine, trembling in every limb,—trembling too much to speak.

“You may kiss me,” she whispered, and I bent and kissed her on the lips. “Now go, and let that be your accolade for the knightly spirit you have shown to-night. Oh, do not seek to hide the tears. I could not love a man who had not a tender heart.”

She pushed me gently from her. I turned to find that Richelieu had also risen and was waiting.

“Come, my friend,” he said, “let us go,” but he did not take his eyes from the princess, who was standing, pale, lovely, with the air of a general who has fallen mortally wounded at the moment of victory.

I went to her and knelt as at a shrine.

“Mademoiselle,” I said, “I cannot hope to tell you how great a reverence you have inspired in my heart to-night, but I trust that if you are ever in need of a sword and a loyal heart you will remember me. I can think of no greater honor than that of serving you.”

“I shall remember, M. de Brancas,” she answered, smiling down upon me and giving me her hand. “I know you for a brave gentleman and faithful friend. I shall not soon forget it.”

I kissed her hand and stood erect once more. Plainly it was time to go, and with a last glance at my love, I laid my hand on Richelieu’s arm and drew him towards the closet. He yielded without a word. Only when the door had closed behind us did he falter, but I pressed him on, down the spiral staircase, along the little hall, and through the outer door. He started as it clicked shut behind us and leaned against the wall.

“Oh, I can go no farther, de Brancas!” he exclaimed. “Think to what fate I am abandoning her. She may be brave now, perhaps, but what of the days and the years that are yet to come?”

“It is as she would wish,” I answered, gently. “Come, we must not remain here.”

I led him to the low wall, which we climbed a second time, along the avenue of chestnuts and to the street beyond. The carriage was awaiting us. I called the driver.

“You will return to the Hotel de Richelieu,” I said, and entered after the duke.

The way seemed interminably long, nor did I venture to offer any further sympathy to the stricken man in the other corner. My own heart was sore enough, not only with his sorrow but with my own.

Jacques met us at the steps. One glance at his master’s face told him the story.

“You will drive to the stables,” he said to the coachman. “I will soon join you there,” and he followed us within and shut the door.

Richelieu paused a moment on the stairs.

“I will go to my room, de Brancas,” he said, in a weary voice. “I wish to be alone, my friend,” and he went on up the stairs. I watched him until he disappeared from sight, and then turned into a room on the lower floor.

“Send him up a bottle of wine, Jacques,” I said. “He needs it now as he never did before in his life.”

“He has lost, then, M. de Brancas?”

I glanced at his honest face.

“Yes, he has lost in a way,” I answered. “But he has also won a great victory, my friend.”

“He had not the air of a victor, monsieur.”

“Ah, Jacques,” and I smiled rather grimly, “there are some victories which cost the victor more than the vanquished. This was one of that kind. But they are victories just the same, Jacques, though men, sometimes, do not so consider them.”

I turned to the fire and sat down before it. This, then, was the end. And was it the end, also, of my love for Louise Dacour? When should I see her? What did the future hold for us? I gazed into the depths of the glowing embers and saw again her sweet face looking up at me, her eyes on mine, and I knew that come what might that vision would never leave me. The clock chimed midnight, and as I started bedward, I heard Richelieu walking back and forth in the room overhead. And a great wave of pity for him swept over me as I thought of the battle he was fighting and the ordeal he had yet to face.

CHAPTER XXII
AT THE PALAIS ROYAL

I had scarce opened my eyes the next morning when there came a rap at the door.

“Come in!” I cried.

The door opened and Jacques entered.

“An order for you, M. de Brancas,” he said, “left here a moment ago by one of the regent’s guards,” and he handed me a folded paper.

I opened it with a trembling hand. What new move was this?

“M. de Brancas,” I read, “will be in the chapel of the Palais Royal at nine o’clock this morning. He will accompany the Duc de Richelieu, and will not leave until the ceremony which is to take place at that hour has been concluded. He will then proceed directly to the private audience-chamber. Signed, Orleans, Regent.”

“’Tis hardly a new calamity, Jacques,” I said, seeing his anxious face, “but it may presage one. Is Richelieu awake?”

“He is in the dining-hall awaiting you, monsieur.”

“Tell him I will join him in a moment,” and leaping out of bed, I was soon dressed and downstairs.

I looked at the duke anxiously as I advanced to take his hand, and was pleased to note that his face showed less disorder than I had feared.

“Ah, do not look so depressed, my friend!” he cried, rising to meet me. “I have finished the battle, and I fancy you will no longer find me the foolish and vacillating creature of last night. At least, I shall be strong enough to say yes or no.”

“That is well, monsieur,” I said, but I glanced at him with some concern, for his gayety seemed feverish. I judged it best to say nothing on that score, however, and we sat down to breakfast together, the duke maintaining a rapid flow of conversation which awakened in me still more uneasiness.

“I received an order this morning from the regent,” I said, at last, “commanding me to accompany you to the Palais Royal this morning at nine o’clock. If you think the sight will prove too painful, you could easily feign illness, monsieur.”

“No, no,” and Richelieu grew grave in a moment. “I shall go, my friend, and prove to Charlotte that I am not the coward she must think me.”

“But it seems an unnecessary trial for both of you,” I protested.

“The regent has ordered it, de Brancas,” answered Richelieu, quietly; “and do you know why he has ordered it? Simply to give me pain. Ah, well, I will show him that I can smile even when my heart is breaking.”

He fell silent for a time and then suddenly arose.

“Come,” he said, “we have no time to lose. It will be a brilliant assembly and we must pay some attention to our toilettes. You are to consider mine as your own, my friend. All I have would be too little to show my gratitude.”

I thanked him, but declined his offer. I was resolved to wear no borrowed plumage, but to go as plain Jean de Brancas. Richelieu looked at me with a smile as he joined me in the hall,—a smile of understanding,—but he said nothing. We entered the carriage which was waiting and were driven rapidly across the Seine. I glanced at him anxiously. He appeared more composed than I.

There was a blockade of vehicles in the Rue St. Honoré and we could proceed but slowly. Richelieu seemed rather to court than to shun observation and nodded gayly to all whom he knew. But every journey must have an end, and at last we drew up before the entrance to the Palais Royal, crossed the court, and mounted the steps together. The chapel was already crowded with a gay company, and they seemed to turn their heads with one accord and look at us as we entered. Some whisper had got abroad of Richelieu’s love for the princess, and every one was curious to see how he would endure the ordeal. My heart leaped as I saw him advancing with head erect and eyes sparkling, bowing gayly to right and left. It was as I would have a brave man go to the block. He took his station at the side of Mlle. de Charolais, the regent’s sister, in the front rank of the spectators, and began a lively conversation with her. I had not his confidence in my power to conceal my feelings, and chose a less conspicuous position somewhat in the rear.

We had not long to wait. A sudden silence fell upon the crowd, and before the altar appeared the priest, vested in surplice and white stole. At either side of him came the acolytes and choir boys, and even as they took their places the bridal procession entered. I who was standing behind Richelieu saw the nervous energy with which he gripped his sword, but his lips still smiled even when the bride, conducted by the regent, passed in her wedding finery. I gazed at her with bated breath. Her face was white as her wedding-gown and her eyes were lustrous and dark and full of high purpose. I had never seen her so beautiful.

My eyes turned from her to the lady following, and with a start I recognized Louise. She, too, was pale, and I saw that her lips were trembling, but she went bravely on, looking neither to the right nor to the left. The crowd of courtiers and powdered ladies closed in behind her, and I dimly remember hearing some one say that the ceremony was to be the simplest possible, that the bride had so ordered it.

The murmur of the crowd died away to a whisper, to profound silence, broken only by the voice of the priest. I felt my head whirling and my hand trembling like a leaf. And then came the voice of the princess, calm, clear, firm, and my eyes were wet with tears. I dared not glance in Richelieu’s direction. I feared that even yet he might attempt to drag her from the altar. Above the beating of my heart arose the voice of the priest,—

“Ego conjungo vos in matrimonium, in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sanctu.”

And it was done. I know not what I had expected,—a bolt from heaven, perhaps—some warning of divine displeasure,—but in my heart I had not until this moment believed that this marriage was to be. What followed I do not know. I heard a confused sound of chanting far in the distance; the odor of incense was in my nostrils. A movement in the crowd jostled me rudely, and as the people fell back to right and left I saw again the victim of this sacrifice, her eyes more luminous, her face more livid, but her head no less erect, her step no less firm. At her side was a dark and swarthy man whom I had never seen before, but whom I knew to be the representative of the Duc de Modena, for the marriage had been by proxy. They passed down the aisle and out of sight.

I stood as a man dazed. I could not believe that what I had witnessed had really happened. It seemed that I must be dreaming. A touch on the arm aroused me, and I turned to find Richelieu at my side.

“Come, my friend,” he said, smiling sadly, “I, too, have just received an order from the regent. It is to join my regiment at Bayonne without delay. A guard of horse awaits me at the door.”

“And you will go?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered, “I shall be glad to get away from Paris for a time. There is nothing but sad memories here for me. You are to make my house your home,” he continued, earnestly. “Perhaps, some time, you may even care to join me at Bayonne. Good-by, my friend,” and as though unable to say more, he pressed my hand and hurried towards the door.

I gazed after him until he had disappeared in the crowd, and I wondered sadly what I should do alone in Paris. Without Richelieu and without Louise my life would indeed be aimless and void of interest. I watched the crowd as it gradually dispersed. More than one curious glance was shot in my direction, but no one spoke to me, and the chapel soon became deserted.

A voice at my side startled me.

“Monsieur has an appointment with the regent, has he not?” asked the voice, and I turned and saw one of the ushers of the palace.

“Yes; I had forgot it,” I answered, remembering in a moment the order I had received ere I was out of bed.

“I will conduct monsieur to the audience-chamber,” he said, and at a gesture of assent he led the way.

“Do you know when Mlle. de Valois leaves?” I asked.

“The Duchess de Modena leaves at once for Italy to join her husband.”

“True,” I murmured, “she is no longer Mlle. de Valois,” and I followed him in silence. I was not, then, to see Louise again. There was no room in my heart for any other thought. I was crushed, hopeless. My guide opened the door into the audience-chamber which I knew so well. He stood aside and I entered. A glance showed me that the room was empty.

“The regent requests you to await him here, monsieur,” said the usher, and closed the door.

I sank into a chair, utterly weary and disheartened. Never, even at Poitiers, had my life appeared so barren and so fruitless. I felt as a shipwrecked man must feel who is left alone in the midst of a great waste of water, without a spar to cling to, without a hope of succor,—overwhelmed, impotent, a pigmy. I comprehended dimly that I had been struggling against a force greater than I had understood,—a force that had brushed me aside out of its path without seeing me,—a force against which my puny strength counted as less than nothing.

The opening of a door aroused me, and I arose as I saw the regent enter.

“Sit down, M. de Brancas,” he said, kindly, himself taking the large chair in which he always sat. “This is to be a friendly conference, I trust,” and he smiled at me, though, I fancied, sadly. “This is the first time I have seen you since you dashed out of the wood with Cartouche’s rascals at your heels, and I see that your wound is not yet well. Believe me, monsieur, I am not ungrateful for the valor you showed that night, and I appreciate and respect the feeling which sent you to my rescue.”

“’Twas what any gentleman would have done,” I said, simply, and that night seemed far away.

“’Twas what any gentleman would have tried to do, perhaps,” answered the regent, “but which few could have accomplished. Do not belittle yourself, M. de Brancas. I admire strong men who pause at nothing, even though they be against me. Few could have done what you have done since you have been in Paris.”

“And to what end?” I cried. “Everything that I have done, every hope that I have cherished, was blown into thin air this morning.”

“There is one thing which even the bravest men assault in vain,” and the regent’s manner had a certain majesty which became him well. “That is the state. They may break themselves against it as they will, they may think that they have victory within their grasp, but in the end the state stands firm, unshaken. It cannot stop to examine every heart, M. de Brancas. It must move steadily forward towards the goal it has in view. Some hearts may be crushed, some lives embittered, but the state lives, and the state is above everything.”

“But did the state demand this sacrifice?” I asked.

“The state demanded it, yes, M. de Brancas,” and a cloud descended upon the regent’s face. “I love my daughters, monsieur. I do not delight in torturing them. But the father must yield to the regent, just as the man must yield to the state. I tell you plainly that no other price could have bought the head of Richelieu. I was determined that no member of my house—the reigning house—should continue a liaison with a traitor. I was determined that treason should not be permitted to conceal itself behind the throne, ready to hurl it down at any moment; and had there been no other way, that traitor’s head should have fallen on the Place de Greve as a warning to other traitors. But there was another way, and it has been accomplished. A severed neck has never been known to heal, monsieur, but broken hearts are not so fatal, for Time is a wonderful surgeon. I will govern France with justice and kindness if I can; but when treason raises its head, I will strike and without mercy. Above everything, it shall be I who governs France, and no one else. My daughter’s marriage with this Italian prince has strengthened France, and she needs all the strength the devotion of her subjects can give her.”

He paused for a moment, the cloud still on his brow.

“You have doubtless heard many stories about me, M. de Brancas,” he continued. “Some of them are true, perhaps, but there is one which is not true. It is the most monstrous of all. Chancel has made the most of it in his last philippic.”

I knew what he meant. Indeed, I had heard Chancel reciting it at the house of Madame du Maine, and had turned away in disgust at the statement that Orleans aimed to poison the king and seize the throne himself.

“Shall I tell you what is the greatest ambition of my life? It is to place in the hands of Louis XV., when he ascends the throne, a kingdom greater than the one which I now hold in trust; a kingdom free from debt and from the abuses which grind the people into the earth. I may have mistresses, M. de Brancas, but no one has ever yet been able to say truthfully that I deliver the kingdom into their hands, as other and greater rulers than I have done.”

He had risen as he spoke, and at these words he stood beside my chair and laid his hand upon my shoulder. I was strangely moved. Assuredly there was no enmity in my heart for this man, however great the sorrow he had caused my dearest friend.

“I do not know why I tell you this,” he continued, in a calmer voice, “unless it be that I know you for a brave and loyal gentleman, with whom I am proud to measure myself. The bravest act of all, monsieur, was the one you did last night in the apartments of my daughter.”

“You knew of it, then?” I asked in wonderment.

“Yes, I knew of it,” and the regent smiled with a brighter face. “My daughter came to me after you had gone and told me of it,—not to ask anything for herself, monsieur, but to ask something for some one else whom she loves. And I was proud of my daughter,—how proud I cannot tell you,—and I promised her that what she asked should be done. Indeed, I had already thought of it before she asked.”

“But Richelieu also deserves some praise, monsieur,” I said. “He chose the nobler part.”

“Yes, but required prompting in it,” answered the regent, quickly. “However, he has his reward, monsieur. I had intended banishing him as a firebrand dangerous to the peace of the kingdom. Instead, I have merely sent him to Bayonne, and will soon release him even from there. The reward is for others, monsieur, who behaved more nobly still.”

I gazed at him in astonishment too deep for words, for this was not the Philip d’Orleans whom I had known and whom the world knew. This was a handsome gentleman with smiling lips and brilliant eyes, a man whose whole appearance was singularly winning.

“There is yet wanting one person to our conference,” he said, after a moment. “That person will soon be here. In fact, she is coming now.”

I heard the door open behind me,—the rustle of a dress. My heart told me who it was. I sprang from my chair and faced Louise Dacour.

CHAPTER XXIII
THE REGENT’S GRATITUDE

She wore the same gown in which she had followed the princess to the altar, and there were traces of tears upon her face. She walked straight to the regent, without glancing in my direction.

“What is it, monsieur?” she cried, “what is it that has separated me from Charlotte at this last moment?”

“And did she tell you nothing?” asked the regent, kindly.

“She told me only that it had been done at her request and that she wished it. She bade me good-by at her carriage window, and said that you would explain it all to me.”

“And so I shall,” said the regent. “You would wish to do what my daughter desires you to do, would you not, mademoiselle, and what you knew would make her happier?”

“Oh, M. le Duc, can you ask?”

“No, I do not need to ask,” and the regent smiled into her anxious face. “Only, before beginning, I wish to assure you, mademoiselle, that that which follows is really what my daughter does wish, and what will, I am certain, truly make her happier. You will believe this, mademoiselle?”

“I will try to do so,” and Louise looked at him wonderingly. Evidently she, also, was not acquainted with this man of kindly face and tender voice.

“Sit down, then, mademoiselle,” he said, “and you also, M. de Brancas. What I have to say will take some time and I do not wish to weary you.”

We did as he bade, and I gazed at Louise with all my love in my eyes, but she did not vouchsafe me a glance.

“We must commence first with M. de Brancas,” and the regent picked up some papers which were lying on the table at his elbow. “I pray neither of you to interrupt me until I have finished. This paper which I hold in my hand is the report of the Marquis d’Ancenis, captain of the guards. It informs me that among the gentlemen who were found in the salon of Madame du Maine on the night of the discovery of the plot was a certain M. Jean de Brancas. It adds that there can be no possible doubt of his complicity in the plot, that he had been aware of all its details for several days, that he was present at a conference between Mlle. de Launay and Prince Cellamare, that on that occasion he resisted and dangerously wounded one of M. Hérault’s agents, that he subsequently caused to be delivered to M. Hérault a number of spurious papers for the purpose of misleading him, and that he has, in a word, been guilty of treason.”

“But, M. le Duc——” protested Mlle. Dacour. The regent stopped her with a gesture.

“M. de Brancas has, then, been guilty of the gravest crime which can be charged against a subject of France,” he continued. “All persons who conspire against the kingdom must be punished. To this there can be no exception. All of the other conspirators have been imprisoned. M. de Brancas must therefore be imprisoned. Some of the other conspirators must lose their heads. M. de Brancas’s further punishment has also to be considered.”

At last she looked at me,—only a glance, but a glance that made my heart leap.

“And have you brought me here to torture me?” she cried.

“Have patience,” and the regent smiled down again into her upturned face. “You will learn in a moment, mademoiselle. This,” he continued, picking up another paper, “is a second report concerning M. de Brancas. It relates how he escaped from the salon by overturning two of the guards, mounted a horse and rode away no one knew whither, evading two volleys which were fired after him. Here is a third report, stating that Madame du Maine endeavored to prevent his escape, and furnished a description of the horse and rider, which was sent to all the gates of Paris, and especially, at her urgent request, to the Versailles gate. This paper is the report of the commandant of the Versailles gate. It relates how M. de Brancas arrived at the gate in the guise of a courier, having in some way obtained the pass-word; how, in the instant that an attempt was made to arrest him, he rode down a sentry, forced open the gate, and plunged into the outer darkness. The report adds that a volley of musketry was fired after him, but that he apparently escaped uninjured, and that the absence of horses prevented a pursuit. Here is a report from Levau, chief surgeon of the Hotel Dieu, to whom this case was especially intrusted. It states that M. de Brancas was brought there suffering from a pistol-shot in the head and another in the shoulder, that he recovered from both wounds and was discharged practically well again.”

The regent paused and I got another glance from Louise. She was breathing more freely and the color was returning to her face. What cared I for the regent if only she loved me?

“But the most important report of all is not here,” he continued. “That is my report, which, however, has never been put into writing. It is that on this same night I was returning to Paris from Versailles, where some business had summoned me. I had passed St. Cloud, when out of the wood ahead rode a madman, who fired a pistol into the air, cried to me to save myself, and rolled lifeless into the road. The report would add that, upon examination, this madman was found to be the same M. de Brancas concerning whom so many reports have already been written. The report would conclude by stating that a plot to assassinate me was subsequently discovered.”

Again the regent paused for a moment. Ah! the joy in my heart when Louise looked at me a third time,—this time almost with a smile.

“In other words,” went on the regent, “the object of this mad ride through the night, this overcoming of so many obstacles, this encountering of so many perils,—in short, this achievement almost superhuman,—was to save my life from a band of murderers. For this I am grateful, and I intend to show my gratitude. This, M. de Brancas,” and he picked up another paper, “is the title to a pretty little estate in Normandy. It is called Arneaux. This title, monsieur, I give you, and I instruct you to set out for your estate as soon as possible. It is upon your estate that I propose to imprison you.”

I took the paper, too stupefied to speak. An estate for me—for me, Jean de Brancas!

“But this is more than I merit, monsieur,” I stammered. He silenced me with a gesture. Louise was beaming at me, her eyes bright with tears.

“It was at this point,” continued the regent, whose face grew ever more smiling, “that my daughter came to my assistance. It was last night that she knocked at the door of my apartment, and after she had entered, she told me of an act of loyalty before which I count all this as nothing. She told me of a man who held honor above love and friendship, and of a woman who held loyalty and honor above love. Believe me, monsieur and mademoiselle, there are not many such. And in return for this my daughter suggested that I also appoint a jailer for M. de Brancas.”

“But, M. le Duc,” protested Louise, “M. de Brancas does not need a jailer. His simple word of honor, it seems to me, should be sufficient.”

I confess my head was in a whirl. I knew not what to think.

“So I thought,” answered the regent, “and so I told my daughter, but I was silenced when she told me whom she wished me to name as jailer. I have made out the appointment here. You will see it is in due form. ‘I, Philip d’Orleans, Regent of France, in the name of His Most Gracious Majesty, Louis XV., of France, do this day appoint as jailer of M. Jean de Brancas, to securely guard upon his estate at Arneaux by whatever means may seem necessary, one Mlle. Louise Dacour——’”

Louise uttered a cry of astonishment. I was on my feet in an instant. The regent silenced us both with another wave of the hand.

“‘The only condition being,’” he continued, “‘that Mlle. Dacour shall be united in marriage to the prisoner, M. de Brancas, in order that she may be able to guard him more effectually at all times. Signed, Philip d’Orleans, Regent of France.’ Now, M. de Brancas, we will hear you first. Is it that you object to this jailer?”

“No, M. le Duc,” I answered, not daring to glance at Louise. “God knows, I would willingly spend my whole life in such a prison. But I ask no assistance in love, monsieur, nor do I wish any woman, however much I love her, to be compelled to marry me.”

The regent looked at me for a moment with a smile.

“And who has said anything about compulsion, my friend?” he asked. “Certainly, not I. It is for Mlle. Dacour to choose. I fancy you would suffer little with such a jailer, but if she does not desire the position, she has only to refuse it.”

I turned to Louise. She, too, had risen, and her face was rosy with blushes and tender with a great tenderness. She was looking at me with brimming eyes. For a moment I did not understand.

“Louise!” I cried, “Louise!”

“M. le Duc,” she said, with the prettiest bow in the world, “I believe I will accept the trust.”

In an instant she was in my arms, and the regent, with smiling face, left us alone together.

A LAST WORD

The roses are blooming about me in this little garden in Normandy, for it is June, and six months have gone since that memorable audience with the regent,—six months that have passed like a dream. I have been busy looking over my estate—how strangely it sounds, even yet, to say “my estate!”—getting acquainted with my people and trying to make them love me.

I receive a letter from Paris now and then, and from these I learn the news. Madame du Maine is still at Dijon, and the other conspirators are also still in prison, but the regent is not vindictive, and I believe will soon release them. To the Bretons he was not so merciful, and more than one went to the gibbet. But the kingdom is at peace, and we hear no more of plots against it.

I close my eyes, and see again the lovely face of Charlotte d’Orleans as I saw it last and as I love best to remember it, and I pray that it may yet be my good fortune to be of service to her. Stranger things have happened, and, who knows, perhaps some day the chance will come.

And Richelieu? Ah, Richelieu is coming next week to be my guest, and how I shall delight to take him by the hand, to show him over my estate, to talk with him again!

As I lay down my pen I hear a stealthy step upon the walk behind me, and two soft hands are clasped upon my eyes.

“Guess who it is,” cries a merry voice.

“I do not need to guess, my love,” I answer. “My heart tells me too surely,” and I draw my wife’s laughing face down to mine and kiss her fondly.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

The cover image for this eBook was created by the transcriber using the original cover and is entered into the public domain.