“So let it be,” he said. “Your deaths on your own heads, my braves,” and my heart stood still as I heard him pull back the triggers.
“Come!” I cried to my companion; “charge him. We cannot remain here to be shot down like dogs.”
He responded with a merry laugh.
“Why, this is better than the Comédie,” he said, speaking for the first time since he had entered the fray. “It thrills the nerves and makes the heart beat high. But all things must end, and so, M. Cartouche, I think it would be just as well to put up your pistols and call your scoundrels off. You will get no purses here this evening.”
“De Richelieu!” cried Cartouche; and then in a tone of deepest concern, “Believe me, M. le Duc, I did not recognize you in the darkness, nor did I know this gentleman to be a friend of yours, else this would not have happened.”
“Enough, enough,” laughed my companion, as Cartouche’s men slunk back into the gloom. “A man could not recognize his mistress on a night like this. My friend and I bid you adieu,” and sheathing his sword and motioning me to follow, he turned away without once looking back. I admit that for my part I lacked his assurance, and more than once glanced over my shoulder to make certain that I was not about to receive a stab in the back. But my fears were seemingly groundless, for I saw no more of Cartouche or his men.
It was not until we reached a more frequented street that I turned my thoughts to my companion. I glanced at him with no little curiosity, for I knew the young Duc de Richelieu by reputation, as, indeed, did every other gentleman in the kingdom, yes, and all the ladies, too. A grandnephew of the Great Cardinal, he resembled in many ways that intrepid and indomitable man. A fine swordsman, gallant lover, and brave gentleman,—that is what report said of him,—and I could wish no better epitaph upon my gravestone, should I ever merit one. I saw a straight, slight, handsome man of twenty-two or three, with blue eyes and smiling lips. His hat was worn well down over his forehead and his cloak pulled negligently about his chin, as though he knew the need of disguise and yet disdained to use it, which in the end I found to be the case. There was something strangely familiar in the face, but I banished the thought in a moment, for I knew very well that I had never before met the Duc de Richelieu.
We walked for a time in silence, and as I glanced at him again I recalled with amusement the story of his début at Marly, seven or eight years before, when Madame de Maintenon had pronounced him “the dearest doll in the world.” He had found favor with the ladies from the first, and, so the story ran, had made such violent love to the Duchess of Burgundy that he was dismissed from the court and sent home under guard, together with a lettre-de-cachet which had compelled his father to take him to the Bastille, where he had been imprisoned more than a year. The story had been repeated in all four corners of the kingdom, and his reputation was made from that moment. I could not but admit his comeliness, and of his courage I had already sufficient proof. With this man for a friend, I reflected, even a youth from the provinces might go far. My arm was giving me some pain where it had been wounded, but I managed to bind my handkerchief about it under my cloak and determined that it must wait a more convenient season for attention. It was Richelieu who broke the silence.
“’Twas fortunate I had some business in this quarter of the town to-night and chanced to pass this way,” he said, with a light laugh. “Cartouche is an old friend of mine. I did him a service once,—saved him from the wheel, in fact,—and since then he has been kind enough not to trouble me or my friends; a forbearance which they greatly value, and which may account, in part, for my having so many. You perhaps heard him call my name and so know who I am. May I ask whom I had the honor of rescuing?”
“In faith, it was no less than a rescue,” I answered, warmly, “for the rogues had me all but overcome. I am Jean de Brancas, at your service, M. le Duc.”