“Can you not guess?” cried Richelieu. “It could be only one man,—the one who found a way out of the Bastille,—who has stood between me and danger a dozen times,—who even at this moment is awaiting me in the closet there.”
I crouched for a spring, expecting an instant attack from my companion in the closet, and determined to throttle him at any cost before an alarm could be given. Even as I steeled myself for the struggle I heard a startled exclamation at my side.
“Are you indeed here, M. de Brancas?” whispered a sweet voice.
“Louise, oh, Louise! is it you?” I cried, forgetting caution in the joy and great reaction of this discovery, and I stretched out my arms and drew her to me. “I was just about to spring upon you to prevent your escape,” I added, laughing out of the sheer rapture of my heart.
She did not resist my arms, but, with a long sigh, laid her head upon my breast. My blood was surging in my ears as I stooped and kissed her hair, and I felt that she was sobbing.
“What is it, my love?” I whispered.
“Oh, do you not know?” she sobbed. “Surely you have heard of the wedding to-morrow?”
“Yes,” I answered, “but that wedding will never take place. By to-morrow Richelieu and Mlle. de Valois will be far from here, speeding towards the north of France.”
“I wish so with all my heart,” and Louise drew back a little, “but it will never be, M. de Brancas.”
“What! never be?” I cried. “But I tell you that everything is prepared, that all that remains to be done is for them to descend, enter the carriage, and give the word to the driver.”