“Ah! the old dotard!” interrupted the page, laughing immoderately.
“Not so foolish as you imagine, only he is a little behindhand for our affair.”
“I can not but approve this generous project, and I pray you give me
to wot all your proceedings—”
“Ah! the old language of the last reign!” said Olivier. “He can’t say ‘Make me acquainted with your proceedings,’ as we now say.”
“Let me read, for Heaven’s sake!” said the Abbe; “a hundred years hence they’ll laugh at our phrases.” He continued:
“I can counsel you, notwithstanding my great age, in relating to you
what happened to me in 1560.”
“Ah, faith! I’ve not time to waste in reading it all. Let us see the end.
“When I remember my dining at the house of Madame la Marechale
d’Effiat, your mother, and ask myself what has become of all the
guests, I am really afflicted. My poor Puy-Laurens has died at
Vincennes, of grief at being forgotten by Monsieur in his prison;
De Launay killed in a duel, and I am grieved at it, for although I
was little satisfied with my arrest, he did it with courtesy, and I
have always thought him a gentleman. As for me, I am under lock and
key until the death of M. le Cardinal. Ah, my child! we were
thirteen at table. We must not laugh at old superstitions. Thank
God that you are the only one to whom evil has not arrived!”
“There again!” said Olivier, laughing heartily; and this time the Abbe de Gondi could not maintain his gravity, despite all his efforts.
They tore the useless letter to pieces, that it might not prolong the detention of the old marechal, should it be found, and drew near the Place des Terreaux and the line of guards, whom they were to attack when the signal of the hat should be given by the young prisoner.