While Raimond V. and his guests were supping gaily, the company of soldiers seen by the watchman, about fifty men belonging to the regiment of Guitry, had arrived almost at the door of Maison-Forte.

The recorder Isnard, followed by his clerk, as usual, said to Captain Georges, who commanded the detachment:

“It would be prudent, captain, to try a summons before attacking by force, in order to take possession of the person of Raimond V. There are about fifty well-armed men in his lair behind good walls.”

“Eh! what matters the walls to me?”

“But, besides the walls, there is a bridge, and you see, captain, it is up.”

“Eh! what do I care for the bridge? If Raimond V. refuses to lower it—ah, well, zounds! my carabineers will assault the place; that happened more than once in the last war! If necessary, we will attach a petard to the door, but let it be understood, recorder, that, whatever happens, you are to follow us to make an official report.”

“Hum! hum!” grunted the man of law. “Without doubt, I and my clerk must assist you; I shall be able, even under that circumstance, to note the good conduct and zeal of the aforesaid clerk in charging him with this honourable mission.”

“But, Master Isnard, that is your office, and not mine!” said the unhappy clerk.

“Silence, my clerk, we are here before Maison-Forte. The moments are precious. Do you prepare to follow the captain and obey me!”

The company had, in fact, reached the end of the sycamore walk, which bordered the half-circle.

The bridge was up, and the windows opening on the interior court were brilliant with light, as the baron’s guests had departed but a little while.

“You see, captain, the bridge is up, and more, the moat is wide and deep, and full of water,” said the recorder.

Captain Georges carefully examined the entrances of the place; after a few moments of silence, he pulled his moustache on the left side violently,—a sure sign of his disappointment.

A sentinel, standing inside the court, seeing the glitter of arms in the moonlight, cried, in a loud voice:

“Who goes there? Answer, or I will fire!”

The recorder jumped back three steps, hid himself behind the captain, and replied, in a high voice:

“In the name of the king and the cardinal, I, Master Isnard, recorder of the admiralty of Toulon, command you to lower this bridge!”

“You will not depart?” said the voice. At the same time a light shone from one of the loopholes for guns which defended the entrance. It was easy to judge that the sentinel was blowing the match of his musket.

“Take care!” cried Isnard. “Your master will be held responsible for what you are going to do!”

This warning made the soldier reflect; he fired his musket in the air, at the same time crying the word of alarm in a stentorian voice.

“He has fired on the king’s soldiers!” cried the recorder, pale with anger and fright “It is an act of armed rebellion. I saw it. Clerk, make a note of that act!”

“No, recorder,” said the captain, “he has barked, but he has not desired to murder. I saw the light, too, and he fired in the air to give the alarm.”

In answer to the sentinel’s cries, several lights appeared above the walls; numerous precipitate steps, and a great clang of arms were heard in the court At last, Master LaramÉe, a helmet on his head and his breast armed with a cuirass, appeared at one of the embrasures of the gate.

“In the name of God, what do you want?” cried he. “Is this the time, pray, to come here and trouble good people who are keeping Christmas?”

“We have an order from the king which we come to put into execution,” said the recorder, “and I—”

“I have some wine left yet in my glass, recorder; good evening, I am going to empty it,” said LaramÉe, “only, remember the bulls, and know that a musket-ball reaches farther than their horns. So, now, good-night, recorder!” “Think well on what you are going to do, insolent scoundrel,” said Captain Georges; “you are not dealing this time with a wet hen of a recorder, but with a fight-ing-cock, who has a hard beak and sharp spurs, I warn you.”

“The fact is, Master Isnard,” said the clerk, humbly, to the recorder, “we are to this soldier what a pumpkin is to an artillery ball.”

The recorder, already very much offended by the captain’s comparison, rudely repulsed the clerk, and, addressing LaramÉe with great importance, said:

“You have this time, at your door, the right and the power, the hand and the sword of justice. So, majordomo, I order you to open and to lower the bridge.”

A well-known voice interrupted the recorder; it was that of Raimond V., who had been informed of the arrival of the captain. Escorted by LaramÉe, who carried a torch, the old gentleman appeared erect upon the little platform that formed the entablature of the gate masked by the drawbridge.

The fluctuating light of the torch threw red reflections on the group of soldiers, and shone upon their steel collars and iron head-pieces; half of the scene being in the shade or lighted by the rays of the moon.

Raimond V. wore his holiday attire, richly braided with gold, and his white hair fell over his lace collar. Nothing was more dignified, more imposing or manly than his attitude.

“What do you want?” said he, in a sonorous voice. Master Isnard repeated the formula of his speech, and concluded by declaring that Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez, was arrested, and would be conducted under a safe escort to the prison of the provost of Marseilles, for the crime of rebellion against the orders of the king.

The baron listened to the recorder in profound silence. When the man of law had finished, cries of indignation, howls, and threats, uttered by the dependents of the baron, resounded through the interior court.

Raimond V. turned around, commanded silence, and replied to the recorder:

“You wished to visit my castle illegally, and to exercise in it an authority contrary to the rights of the ProvenÇal nobility. I drove you away with my whip. I did what I ought to have done. Now, Manjour! I cannot allow myself to be arrested for having done what I ought to have done in chastising a villain of your species. Now, execute the orders with which you are charged,—I will not prevent you, any more than I prevented your visit to my magazine of artillery. I regret the departure of my guests, for they also, in their name, would have protested against the oppression of the tyranny of Marseilles.” This speech from the baron was welcomed with cries of joy by the garrison of Maison-Forte.

Raimond V. was about to descend from his pedestal when Captain Georges, who had the rough language and abrupt manners of an old soldier, advanced on the other side of the moat; he took his hat in his hand, and said to Raimond V., in a respectful tone:

“Monseigneur, I must inform you of one thing, which is, that I have with me fifty determined soldiers, and that I am resolved, though to my regret, to execute my orders.”

“Execute them, my brave friend,” said the baron, smiling, with a jocose manner, “execute them. Your marshal wishes to know if my powder is good; he instructs you to be the gunpowder prover. We will begin the trial whenever you wish.”

“Captain, this is too much parley,” cried the recorder. “I order you this instant to employ force of arms to take possession of this rebel against the commands of the king, our master, and to—”

“Recorder, I have no orders to receive from you; only take care not to put yourself between the lance and the cuirass,—you might come to grief,” said the captain, imperiously, to Master Isnard.

Then, turning to the baron, he said, with as much firmness as deference:

“For the last time, monseigneur, I beseech you to consider well: the blood of your vassals will flow; you are going to kill old soldiers who have no animosity against you or yours, and all that, monseigneur,—permit an old graybeard to speak to you frankly,—all that because you wish to rebel against the orders of the king. May God forgive you, monseigneur, for causing the death of so many brave men, and me, for drawing the sword against one of the most worthy gentlemen of the province; but I am a soldier, and I must obey the orders I have received.”

This simple and noble language made a profound impression on Raimond V. He bowed his head in silence, remained thoughtful for some minutes, then he descended from the platform. Murmurs inside were distinctly heard, dominated by the ringing voice of the baron. At the same instant the bridge was lowered and the gate opened; Raimond V. appeared, and said to the captain, as he offered his hand with a dignified and cordial air:

“Enter, sir, enter; you are a brave and honest soldier. Although my head is white, it is sometimes as foolish as a boy’s. I was wrong. It is true, you must obey the orders which have been given to you. It is not to you, it is to the Marshal of Vitry that I should express my opinion of his conduct toward the ProvenÇal nobility. These brave men ought not to be the victims of my resistance. To-morrow at the break of day, if you will, we will depart for Marseilles.”

“Ah, monseigneur,” said the captain, pressing the hand of Raimond V. with emotion, and bowing with respect, “it is now that I really despair of the mission that I am to fulfil.”

The baron was about to reply to the captain when a distant, but dreadful noise rose on the air, attracting the attention of all those who filled the court of Maison-Forte. It was like the hollow roar of the sea in its fury.

Suddenly a tremendous light illuminated the horizon in the direction of La Ciotat, and the bells of the convent and the church began to sound the alarm.

The first idea that entered the baron’s mind was that the city was on fire.

“Fire!” cried he, “La Ciotat is on fire! Captain, you have my word, I am your prisoner, but let us run to the city. You with your soldiers, I with my people, we can be useful there.”

“I am at your orders, monseigneur.”

At that moment the prolonged, reverberating sound of artillery made the shore tremble with its echoes, and shook the windows of Maison-Forte.

“Cannon! Those are the pirates! The watchman to the devil for allowing us to be surprised! The pirates! To arms, captain! to arms! These demons are attacking the city. LaramÉe, my sword! Captain, to horse! to horse! You can take me prisoner to-morrow, but to-night let us run to defend this unfortunate city.”

“But, monseigneur, your house—”

“The devil take them if they venture here! LaramÉe and twenty men could defend it against an entire army. But this unfortunate city is surprised. Quick! to horse! to horse!”

The roar of the artillery became more and more frequent. All the bells were ringing,—a deep rumbling sound reached as far as Maison-Forte,—and the flames increased in number and intensity.

LaramÉe, in all haste, brought the baron’s helmet and cuirass. Raimond V. took the helmet, but would not hear of the cuirass.

“Manjour! what time have I to fasten that paraphernalia? Quick, bring Mistraon to me,” cried he, running to the stable.

He found Mistraon bridled, but, seeing that it required some time to saddle him, he mounted the horse barebacked, told LaramÉe to keep twenty men for the defence of Maison-Forte, commended his daughter to his care, and took, in hot haste, the road to La Ciotat.