“Ah, well, monsieur,” she said, “continue. We find the story very interesting.”
“Well,” continued St. Aulaire, who did not often find so attentive an audience and who needed no encouragement to proceed, “the girl, of course, was an agent of Hérault. All girls of that class are. It is the price they pay for the protection of the police. So she told a gendarme about the Abbé Brigaut’s correspondence with Spain. The gendarme told Hérault, Hérault told Dubois, Dubois told the regent, and there you are. A few hours later a company of guards surrounded the house of this abbé—who, it seems, is not really an abbé, after all—and took him to the Bastille, where he is now comfortably lodged. His papers, of course, were carefully gathered up and handed over to Dubois.”
“And is that all?” asked the duchess, who had bitten her lips until they were red with blood in the effort to retain her composure.
“No, that is only the beginning,” cried St. Aulaire, enjoying immensely the sensation he was creating and little comprehending how profound it was. “It seems that Dubois and the regent found much to interest them in the abbé’s papers. It is said at the Palais Royal, where I was but a moment ago, that they discovered proofs of some ridiculous Spanish plot, I know not what; but, at any rate, they sent Hérault to arrest the Spanish minister, Prince Cellamare himself. There is big game for you! They tell me that he was completely surprised—trust Hérault for that—and made no resistance.”
St. Aulaire paused from sheer want of breath. Every one was looking into his neighbor’s face.
“Gentlemen,” said the duchess, in a hard voice, “it seems that we are to be too late. I would recommend that you leave here as quickly as possible, as M. Hérault will probably not long delay paying me a visit.”
Even as they turned to go there was a tramp of feet at the door, which swung open, giving a glimpse of armed men beyond. But only two men entered. They were Hérault and the Marquis d’Ancenis. Without glancing to the right or left, and with an admirable composure, they advanced straight to the duchess along the lane which was opened for them.
“Madame du Maine,” said d’Ancenis, bowing, “I regret to inform you that you are under arrest.”
“What, captain!” cried the duchess, and I could not but admire the brave manner in which she took the blow, “you dine with me one evening and arrest me the next? Is not that ungallant?”
“’Tis a disagreeable duty, madame,” answered d’Ancenis, “but one which must be performed, nevertheless. Let no one leave the room,” he added sharply, in a louder tone, hearing a movement behind him. But it was no one trying to escape,—every one seemed too nearly paralyzed to think of that, even had it been possible. It was only the Cardinal de Polignac, intriguer, liar, and arrant coward, who had tumbled in a heap on the floor, completely overcome by terror. He was pushed to one side with scant ceremony and left to recover as best he might.