At Odds with the Regent: A Story of the Cellamare Conspiracy

by Burton Egbert Stevenson

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.”