‘Impossible, sir; none could have dared to assume this responsibility. Who told you this story?’
‘I was present, sir, when the officer arrived—spoke with him—and heard M. de Brezé say, “You can, perhaps, have an audience to-morrow.”’
‘He deserves the Bastille for this!’
‘He would have deserved it, sir, yesterday.’ ‘How do you mean, sir?’
‘That there is no Bastille to-day. The officer I mentioned saw it carried by the populace as he left Paris: the garrison are all cut to pieces.’
With something like a cry of agony, half-smothered by an effort, the Prince hurried from the room.
While the clock was yet striking, the sentinel in relief arrived, and Gerald was released from duty. As he wended his way along through room after room, he was struck by the air of silence and desertion around; nowhere were to be seen the groups of lounging courtiers and ‘officiers de service.’ A few inferior members of the household rose and saluted him, and even they wore something ominous and sad in their look, as though evil tidings were abroad.
A light, soft rain was falling as Gerald left the palace toward the pavilion, where Count Dillon’s quarters were established. He knew it was impossible that the Count could yet have returned from Paris, but somehow he found himself repairing to the spot without well knowing why.
As he drew nigh he perceived a light in the little salon, and could distinguish the figure of a man writing at the table. Curious to learn if the Count had unexpectedly turned back, Gerald opened the door and entered. The person at the table turned quickly about, and to his utter confusion Gerald saw it was Monsieur.
‘Come in, come in; you will, perhaps, spare me some writing.’ cried he, in an easy, familiar tone: ‘you may indeed read what I have just written.’ and so saying he handed him a paper with these lines: