“We shall, then, send out instructions to all our allies to strike the first blow one week from to-day. Do you agree?”
“One week from to-day let it be,” said Cellamare, his hands trembling with emotion.
“This is the fifteenth of December. One week from to-day will be the twenty-second. At seven in the morning, then, let Philip of Spain be proclaimed regent of France. Do you your part, M. le Prince, and Madame du Maine will do hers.” I swear she was the coolest of the three.
“It is agreed,” and Cellamare bowed.
“Come, monsieur,” said mademoiselle to me, “let us hasten back and inform the duchess of our decision.”
“But what of our wounded friend in the room there?” I asked.
“I will attend to him,” said Cellamare, “and see that he is kept in a place where he can do no harm.”
“All is arranged then; come,” and Mlle. de Launay hurried from the room and down the stairs.
The clocks were striking three as we reached the street. The sky had cleared and the sun was shining, but the rainfall had been very heavy. The streets were filled with water almost to the houses, and the wide gutters in the middle had been converted into great turgid streams. Across these planks were thrown here and there, forming rude bridges for the accommodation of pedestrians. We picked our way along the slippery stones near the houses, my companion choosing a circuitous route which finally brought us again to the Rue des Frondeurs, and along it to the Rue St. Honoré. Here the floods of water from the neighboring streets had concentrated into a perfect river, through which a continuous stream of carriages splashed, making it impossible to keep the bridges in position.
“Oh, what shall we do?” she cried, as we stopped at the edge of this torrent. “We must not remain here. How are we to cross?”