“What the devil would you have, de Brancas?” and Richelieu threw around his neck a collar which I knew to be that of the Holy Ghost, with its eight-pointed cross, each point crowned by a ball. “A gentleman cannot go to a rendezvous looking like a bourgeois. I have ordered two horses, and I shall be ready to mount by the time they are at the door. You would better select a sword, a poniard, and a pistol, for you may have need of them before the night is over.”
I did as he suggested, and in a few minutes we were in the saddle. We crossed the river at a gallop, and without drawing rein plunged into a maze of narrow streets where I should have been utterly lost, but where Richelieu seemed quite at home. I expected every moment that my horse would break his leg in some hole in the pavement, but my companion did not slacken speed, and I pressed on behind him. I remembered that the rendezvous was in the Palais Royal gardens, and reflected without enthusiasm that this was walking into the lion’s jaws with a vengeance, but I kept my thoughts to myself, and in a moment we turned sharply to the left along a narrow street and came out at the end of a long avenue of chestnuts.
“This is the place,” said Richelieu, and we walked our horses into the shadow of the trees and dismounted. “We will tie our horses here. The fountain is not far distant, and we shall have no difficulty in regaining them should we be surprised. Ah! ’tis the hour,” he added, as ten o’clock sounded from St. Honoré. “In two hours we must be back in the Bastille. ’Tis well that the night is cold,” he continued, leading the way rapidly along the avenue, “else our task would have been more difficult, for this is a great place of resort in fine weather.”
Some distance away, through the leafless branches of the trees, I could see the lights of the Palais Royal gleaming. The moon had risen and shed a cold radiance over the gardens, beautiful even under December’s withering hand. Only under the broad branches of the chestnuts was there obscurity, and we kept carefully in the shadow.
“There is the fountain,” said Richelieu at the end of a moment, “but I see no one. Can it be that she has disappointed me? Perhaps she heard I had been imprisoned and thought I could not come. Ah, there is some one standing in the shadow. It must be she!” and he ran quickly forward.
I thought it much more likely to be a squad of the regent’s guards, but kept close at his elbow, determined to have a hand in whatever might befall. A moment later I saw two muffled figures standing near the fountain, and to these Richelieu ran.
“Ah, Charlotte!” he cried, falling on his knee before one of them, the instinct of his heart telling him which was the princess. “I protest to you that only the most cruel chance made us a moment late. I shall never cease to reproach myself for having kept you waiting.”
“And is it indeed you, M. le Duc?” asked a low voice, and I saw that Richelieu had gained possession of a hand and was covering it with kisses. “But I heard this evening that my father had sent you to the Bastille.”
“So he did,” said Richelieu, “but did you believe any prison in France strong enough to keep me from your side, Charlotte?”
“You escaped, then? But how?”