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

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.”