“I am he,” and I smiled down at the invisible form within the doorway, for I could imagine the expression which must be upon his face, “and I am glad of the opportunity of a word with you. You do not know, perhaps, that Richelieu is a prisoner in the Bastille and that his head is in great danger?”
“No, I did not know it.”
“It is so, nevertheless. He told me that he did you a service once and that you have not forgotten it.”
“That is so, monsieur,” said Cartouche.
“Perhaps you will now have opportunity to repay that kindness.”
“Perhaps,” he assented. “If the worst comes to the worst a rescue in the Place de Greve is not impossible. It has been done before.”
“And may be done again,” I cried, “if you can muster fifty rogues who are not afraid of steel.”
“Trust me for that,” answered Cartouche, quietly. “I can muster a hundred such if necessary. But why is M. de Richelieu imprisoned, monsieur?”
“Simply because the regent wishes it,” I said. “Richelieu has done nothing.”
“Ah!” and Cartouche remained for a moment thoughtful. “Well, monsieur,” he said, at last, in a tone full of significance, “I do not believe we shall need to have recourse to a rescue of that character. The matter will soon adjust itself.”