“It is I, Richelieu; open quickly.” The bolt was thrown and the door opened. Inside were Jacques and two other men, while Maison-Rouge was pacing nervously up and down.
“Ah, messieurs,” he cried, “I thought you were never coming! It is near midnight.”
“We have still ten minutes,” said Richelieu, coolly, “but there is no time to lose. Come,” and he led the way towards the door. We picked up the muskets as we passed through the hall, and as the door opened we fell a pace behind Maison-Rouge, and resuming our character of simple sentries, followed him to the carriage.
“To the Bastille!” cried the governor, and in a moment we were thundering along the street.
“M. de Maison-Rouge,” said Richelieu, in a low voice, “do not be astonished if you receive an early visit from the regent.”
“From the regent? And why so?”
“My friend and I had the misfortune to encounter some of the regent’s guards this evening,” said the duke, calmly, “and I fear that I was recognized.”
“The devil!” exclaimed Maison-Rouge. “Then all is lost.”
“Not at all,” I said, quickly. “At twelve o’clock we will be sent to the roof to go on guard. We will regain our rooms and remove all traces of our flight. You, monsieur, will go directly to bed, and should you be aroused, must consume as much time as possible in putting on your clothes. Even if the regent is right at our heels, that will give us at least ten minutes, and ten minutes is more than we shall need. I think when you show him that you have us safe, he will have little more to say.”
“I trust so, at least,” murmured Maison-Rouge, “though I confess I do not understand how you will accomplish all this. Until to-night I had thought the Bastille impregnable, but you seem to have found some miraculous way of leaving your cells and entering them again.”