“She has merely fainted, M. le Duc,” she said after a moment. “It is nothing. She will soon be herself again, I answer for it.”
“Thank God!” exclaimed the duke, and he covered with kisses the hand he held in his own. “I cannot go leaving her so.”
“I implore you to go, monsieur!” I entreated. “We do not know what instructions have been given the guards at the door. They may break in at any moment.”
“I yield,” murmured Richelieu, and he picked up the regent’s cloak and wrapped it about him; “but this is the last time that I will run away. I shall take horse for Bayonne,” he continued. “With my regiment I shall be safe. They would go to hell for me.”
But I looked at him gloomily, for I saw that even in that disguise his lithe, upright figure bore little resemblance to the shorter and stouter form of the regent.
“I fear the guards will suspect you, monsieur,” I said. “The disguise is a poor one.”
“So be it!” cried the duke, flinging the cloak and hat from him and picking up his own. “I will go without disguise, and trust to my sword to win me passage.” He placed his hand at his side, and remembered that I had his sword pressed against the regent’s heart. I drew my own with my other hand, and presenting it to the prisoner’s throat, handed Richelieu his own.
“Nay, wait a moment, M. le Duc,” cried Mlle. Dacour, as he started towards the door; “there is another way.”
“And unguarded?” he asked, pausing.
“I believe so. Come,” and she led the way towards the apartment in the rear of that in which we were.