Cagliostro still preserved the same mournful silence. They heard the steps of the captain as he left the house, his gay voice in the courtyard, and his farewells to the people assembled to see him depart. Then the horses shook their heads, covered with bells, the door of the carriage shut with some noise, and the wheels were heard rolling along the street.
La Pérouse had started on that voyage from which he was destined never to return.
When they could no longer hear a sound, all looks were again turned to Cagliostro; there seemed a kind of inspired light in his eyes.
Count Haga first broke the silence, which had lasted for some minutes. “Why did you not reply to his question?” he inquired of Cagliostro.
Cagliostro started, as if the question had roused him from a reverie. “Because,” said he, “I must either have told a falsehood or a sad truth.”
“How so?”
“I must have said to him,—‘M. de la Pérouse, the duke is right in saying to you adieu, and not au revoir.’”
“Oh,” said Richelieu, turning pale, “what do you mean?”
“Reassure yourself, marshal, this sad prediction does not concern you.”
“What,” cried Madame Dubarry, “this poor La Pérouse, who has just kissed my hand——”