Late that evening Le Brusquet sat alone in his room in the Louvre, my ring on the table before him. On leaving me that afternoon near the Ladies' Terrace his first thought had been, according to his promise, to return the letters we found to De Ganache; but he was not to be seen. Le Brusquet had sought the tennis courts, haunted the apartments of La Valentinois, and lounged about the lawns where the ladies and gallants of the Court played at grelot of an evening; but in vain. Finally, he mounted his mule, and ambled off to the great square house behind the Bourgogne, where Antony of VendÔme lodged with his train. Here he made certain he would find De Ganache, who followed the prince; but he was once more disappointed. So, giving up the quest for the present, he supped alone at Crabeau's, in the Rue des Fosses St. Germain. Then he returned to the Louvre, and sat down to think, as much of his own affairs as of mine. So far as he himself was concerned he felt he had fallen from the favour of the King. This had happened before; but now for the first time he seemed to have no wish to re-establish himself, and a longing came over him to see his little pepper-box of a tower in the Quercy, and to be once more the Sieur de BesmÉ instead of the King of Folly.

"Eh bien, Pompon!" he said, addressing the ape, "the kingdom of fools is too wide a realm for one man to rule. I shall abdicate, I think. What say you? The Roman went back to his plough; BesmÉ will return to his pears."

The ape simply blinked at him from his seat on the table, and, carrying out his humour, Le Brusquet continued:

"You do not approve—eh? What, then, is left for me?" But as he spoke his eyes fell on the ring, and bending over it he continued:

"Yes; this is where I have failed—save for this I should be off to-morrow—but to go with failure behind me——"

He stopped, for someone knocked at his door, and to Le Brusquet's "Enter!" De Lorgnac stepped in. His face was pale and grave, his boots and clothes splashed with mud, and there were red spots on the whiteness of his ruffles.

For one moment Le Brusquet stared at his friend, and then sprang up.

"What has happened?" he cried.

"Everything—and for the worst. They are taken."

"Taken! You mean——"

"I mean Mademoiselle de Paradis and Orrain, and others besides. La
Valentinois was too quick, and struck at once."

Le Brusquet swore under his breath, and Lorgnac went on:

"It happened in this way. On leaving Orrain this evening he told me that De Ganache had been arrested."

"De Ganache arrested too!"

"Yes; at sundown near the wicket gate. The full significance of the news did not strike me at first, for there were other reasons, which we know, that might have led to his arrest. On my return to the Louvre, however, I heard sufficient to tell me that La Valentinois and her party meant to act without delay."

"And never a word came to my ears, and I thought them sharp."

Lorgnac took no notice of the interruption, but continued:

"On learning this I hastened after Orrain, hoping to be in time to overtake him and save our friends; but it was not to be." And then he went on to tell him what is already known. When he had done Le Brusquet said nothing, but remained in a moody silence, staring in front of him, and De Lorgnac turned from him to the window and looked out upon the night. After a little he turned again, and putting his hand on Le Brusquet's shoulder, said:

"It looks, old friend, as if we were beaten."

Le Brusquet's eyes flashed. "Not yet! This is the last game I play, and it is not checkmate yet. Where have they taken Orrain?"

"The ChÂtelet."

"And mademoiselle?"

"I know not. I know not if she is alive or dead."

Le Brusquet groaned. "That is the worst tale of all. Orrain, I think, we can save."

"How so?"

For answer Le Brusquet held up my ring. "With this talisman!" And slipping it on his finger he continued: "It is not for nothing that I studied law at the College of Cambrai. As first prince of the blood, VendÔme can claim Orrain from the ChÂtelet. If he has any gratitude he will do so."

"I never thought of that. I saw the prisoners taken to the ChÂtelet. There were two, Orrain and La Mothe, who is as well known to be of the prince's household as VendÔme himself is known to be a heretic."

"Yes; a heretic too great to be touched. But he must pay his debts. I am going at once to see VendÔme. Stay here if you like. You know where to find the wine. No, Pompon, not to-night!" And pushing back the ape, who had made ready to follow him, he went off.

It was gay that night in the salon of La Valentinois. The Queen had gone to St. Germain-en-Laye, where the royal children were, and all those who could had flocked to the apartments of the favourite, to pay their court to the crescent moon. The King had retired earlier than usual, for he meant to hunt on the morrow; but his absence only made the revelry more unrestrained. The card-tables were full, and at one of them sat Diane herself, playing with Caraffa against VendÔme and the Marshal St. Andre, and surrounded by a crowd who watched the play and staked amongst themselves upon the game. Immediately behind her stood De Mouchy, in the ermine and red of his office, and ever and again a whispered word passed between the twain.

There was a pile of gold before VendÔme, who was playing recklessly but with wonderful fortune. His face was flushed and his speech thick, for the goblet on the small service-table at his elbow was ever being filled, and emptied as fast as refilled. Nevertheless, he won each time, though he seemed to fling his cards down on the table without a look or thought.

"The gods are with me," he exclaimed loudly as he pulled off a coup, made utterly by hazard, and drew the stakes towards him.

Diane laughed gaily, but the red fox Caraffa was a bad loser.

"Monseigneur," he said with a snarl, "there is a proverb about luck at cards."

"I know," was the swift and unexpected reply. "Mistrust thy fortune when the knave and the Church are together." And VendÔme pointed to the card the Legate had just played.

There was a titter all around; but Diane's white arm was stretched forth, and she tapped VendÔme with her fan.

"Fie, Monseigneur! Your wit is too cruel. His Eminence but referred to the old saw: lucky at cards, unlucky in love."

The prince gallantly kissed her jewelled hand. "Madame, that is true, for until I met you I never knew how unlucky I was."

La Valentinois did not note the glance in VendÔme's eye, and, vain as a peacock, blushed as she alone could blush. But a murmured word from De Mouchy caught her ear, and leaning back in her chair, her face half turned towards De Mouchy, and her fan outspread between herself and the prince, she asked in a quick whisper:

"Is it over?"

"Yes! He has come."

As De Mouchy spoke the crowd parted, and the Vidame appeared, and bowed before Diane.

"It was impossible to come sooner, madame; I had a little affair, and it was necessary to change my attire."

"A successful affair, I trust, Monsieur le Vidame."

Simon was about to answer, but a high-pitched voice broke in: "More successful than even the Vidame's great feat of arms in the forest of Fontevrault." And Le Brusquet made his way through the press, and stood behind the prince's chair.

Diane rose from her seat, and Simon glared at Le Brusquet, whilst a dozen voices called out:

"What was that, Le Brusquet? We have not heard."

"That is owing to Monsieur le Vidame's modesty; but this feat eclipses all the others of which he is the hero. This evening the Vidame broke up the heretic church in the Mathurins; nearly all the accursed brood were slain, women as well as men; but there are still enough prisoners to give us a rare bonfire by Saturday. Is it not so, monsieur?" And Le Brusquet turned to the Vidame.

"Is this true, Le Brusquet?" It was VendÔme who asked. He too had risen, and his voice was trembling with anger.

"Assuredly, Monseigneur! Ask the Vidame! It was a great stroke. Amongst others they have taken La Mothe the Christaudin——" He stopped, for the prince broke in furiously upon his speech.

"This is foul treachery! The edicts are suspended! The King's word is given!"

"And is recalled. The edicts were re-enforced to-day. It is strange, Monseigneur, that you, as the First Prince of the Blood, did not know this!"

It was impossible to mistake the insult in this speech and in Simon's manner as he made it. For a moment it was as if VendÔme's hot temper would have made him forget his rank. He raised his hand as though he would have struck the Vidame; but those around Simon hustled him aside, and it was in a scene of confusion that Monseigneur turned to Diane.

"I understand all this now," he said, pointing to the card-table, covered with the scattered cards and gold, "and I know to whom I owe this. Think not, madame, to fool me longer; but remember that all the rivers in France will not quench the fires you have lit to-day."

Then calling to De Mouy, Albain, and others of his gentlemen he bowed coldly to La Valentinois, and left the room amidst a dead silence.

When he had gone a babel of tongues broke forth, and there were loud and angry cries for Le Brusquet, whose "fool's prank," as they called it, had caused this storm. Le Brusquet, however, was not to be seen. He had stolen in, thrown his apple of discord, and stolen forth again like a ghost. None knew or understood better than he the wayward character of VendÔme, and that never was the prince capable of acting with decision unless his self-love were hurt. So he had made his plan, and acted, and now stood in the shadow of a pillar in the courtyard waiting for the prince. He had not long to wait, for VendÔme came storming out, almost on his heels, and called for his horse. There were quite a hundred or more gentlemen in his train, and as the horses were being brought up Le Brusquet stepped to the side of VendÔme and held up his signet.

"Monseigneur," he said, "here is something of yours that has come back to you."

The prince almost snatched it from him, and glanced at it by the light of the flambeaux. One look, and he turned to Le Brusquet.

"He too!"

"Monseigneur! In the ChÂtelet, where La Mothe is. Forget not your rights, Monseigneur!"

"I am not likely to! Here! A spare horse for Le Brusquet!" And he sprang into his saddle.

Someone brought up a nag, Le Brusquet mounted, and the word being given for the ChÂtelet they went out at a trot, the prince riding in front between De Mouy and Albain, his hat pulled over his eyes, and in silence.

Whilst all this was happening it fared ill enough with me. Though felled by the blow on my head I was not stunned, only so dazed that my recapture was an easy matter. This time no risks were taken, and with my hands tied behind me by means of a long scarf, the other end of which was looped round the high pommel of a trooper's saddle, I was perforce compelled to accompany my captors as best I could, bleeding and dizzy from my hurt.

At length we arrived at the ChÂtelet, followed to the very gates by the mob. As my blurred vision saw through the moonlight those sombre walls, citadel and prison at once, my heart sank. Hope was left behind in those fearful oubliettes, whose sinister names carried utter despair with them. There was the GriÈche, the Barbary, the Chausse d'Hypocras, where the prisoners, ankle deep in water, were neither able to stand upright nor to sit; the Fosse, down which one was lowered by a rope, and the hideous Fin d'Aise in which no man retained his sanity. So it had come to this! And in sullen despair I stood amongst the guards, awaiting Martines' pleasure. At first it seemed as if I were the only prisoner; but any doubts on that point were soon set at rest, for another unfortunate was dragged up and placed beside me. I felt rather than saw it was La Mothe—but, unlike myself, he was not bound—and then I heard Martines ask:

"Are these the only two prisoners?"

"Monsieur!" answered a subordinate officer.

The lieutenant of the ChÂtelet was not an unkindly man, and muttering something about "hangman's work" he came up and surveyed us by the light of the torches. Then he ordered my hands to be freed, and drawing his subaltern aside gave him some commands in a low tone, and went off.

As Martines turned away this person directed us to follow him, and, surrounded by guards, we entered a vaulted passage, and after descending and ascending many stairs found ourselves before a studded door, so low that even a short man would have had to stoop his shoulders to enter therein. A gaoler fumbled with the rusty lock, which for a space resisted all his efforts; but at last it yielded, and the door was pushed open, clanging harshly as it swung back. Beyond lay a hideous dungeon, into which we were thrust, the officer following us with a couple of guards, one of whom carried a lantern. The light discovered a long and narrow prison, the ooze dripping from the walls, and the floor slippery with slime. A single slit in the wall, no wider than three fingers of a man's hand and about a foot in length, let in light and air. For the rest, a stone bench and a jug full of foul water completed the furniture of this terrible chamber. Faint and dizzy, I made towards the bench, and sat thereon in the shadow as the officer said:

"I must ask you to share this lodging for to-night. It is known as the Palace," he added, with a grin, and then pulling out his tablets he turned to La Mothe.

"Your name, monsieur."

"Godefrey de la Mothe, chaplain to Monseigneur the Duke of Bourbon
VendÔme."

"And yours?"

From my seat in the shadow I answered: "Bertrand d'Orrain."

La Mothe started and half faced me, but held himself in, and the officer, having made his note, turned his back upon us and withdrew, followed by his men. We heard the door shut, a drawing of bolts, a rattling of keys, and then came silence and darkness.

No!—not utter darkness; for through the narrow slit in the wall a ray of moonlight fell, lighting the figure of La Mothe where he stood, almost in the centre of the dungeon. He was looking towards me, his eyes expectant and shining; but I could not speak, and sat like a stone.

At length he made a step in my direction.

"Orrain," he said, "have we met at last?"

With an effort I rose and took his outstretched hands, and in that moment I knew that the past was bridged over and my sin forgiven.

For long we sat together on the stone bench, and La Mothe told me of his life. How, though all thought him mortally wounded, he had rallied at last, and, in thankfulness for his escape, resolved to devote the remainder of his days to God. The spirit of the age fell on his mind, keen and ecstatic at once. In every trivial event he saw the hand of the Almighty, but he saw too the corruption around him. It was for such as he that the light of the new faith shone with an alluring radiance, and soon there was no voice that spoke more loudly for the truth than that of Godefrey de la Mothe. A fatalist above all things, even now, when everything seemed lost, he did not despair.

"Nay," he said, "the hour has not come for us to die. God has not brought us together to perish." And the words carried hope with them, even amidst the darkness and lowering prison walls. Then he knelt down and prayed; but I could not, for my heart was raging within me.

At length he rose from his knees. "The Lord will hear and answer," he said simply; but I made no reply, sitting with my head between my hands, staring in front of me. So till the moon set; and I must have slept. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder, and started up. It was La Mothe.

"Hark!" he said. "Do you not hear?"

I listened. There was a distinct murmuring, the clattering of hoofs, the neigh of a horse, and then a cry, faint but distinct:

"VendÔme! VendÔme! Bourbon! NÔtre Dame!"

We sprang to our feet. "The Lord, who preserved His chosen from out of the land of bondage, hath heard my cry, and we are saved!" exclaimed La Mothe, and making our way to the door we listened. All was stillness once more, a stillness that seemed to last for hours, though it was but for a few minutes. At last we heard the tramp of many feet, louder and louder they grew, and then there was a rattling of chains, and our prison door fell open, letting in a stream of light. In the blaze in the doorway stood VendÔme and Martines, and behind them a crowd of eager faces.

"These are the prisoners, Monseigneur!" said Martines.

"And I, Antony de Bourbon-VendÔme, First Prince of the Blood Royal of France, stand here on my right and claim them. Gentlemen," and he turned to us, "you are free; follow me!"