“Where to, monsieur?” asked the coachman, drawing up outside the gate.
I whispered in the governor’s ear.
“To the Hotel de Richelieu,” he answered.
Not a word was spoken as we dashed through the almost deserted streets, and we were soon in the Rue des Saints Pères. The coachman stopped before the central gate of the hotel.
“Wait a moment here,” said Richelieu, and he sprang from the coach, ran to the gate, and rang the bell. A lacquey answered the summons, and after a whispered word with him Richelieu motioned us forward. As we passed he stepped again into the coach, and the gate was closed behind us. In a moment we were at the great entrance of the house.
“Come with us, monsieur,” I said to Maison-Rouge, and motioned him to get out first.
“The governor wishes you on no account to leave this place,” I said to the driver as we descended. “M. de Maison-Rouge intends to look through the papers of M. de Richelieu. It may take some time, but you are to await him here.”
The coachman, well drilled, doubtless, in his master’s peculiar business, nodded to show that he understood.
We mounted the steps, and Richelieu knocked at the door. It was opened by Jacques, who recognized his master at once and admitted us without a word.
“Jacques,” said Richelieu, as the door closed, “you will conduct this gentleman to the red salon. Call two of my men and let them assist you in guarding him. On no account is he to escape or communicate with any one. You will, however, provide him with wine and whatever else he may require.”