‘And your horse—what has become of him?’ asked the Count.
‘He is fastened to the ring of the large porte cochère—the third house from this.’
Mirabeau leaned out of the window as if to satisfy himself that this statement was true.
‘Supposing, then, that I agree to your request, what means have you to convey me to St. Cloud?—what preparations are made?’
‘None, sir. There was no time for preparation. It was, as I have told you, late last night when Monsieur gave me this order. It was in the briefest of words.’
‘"Tell Monsieur de Mirabeau that his Majesty would speak with him,”’ said the Count, suggesting to Gerald’s memory the tenor of his message.
‘No, sir. “Tell Monsieur de Mirabeau to hasten to St. Cloud, where I will meet him.”’
‘How did you become a noble guard?’ asked he quickly. ‘They say abroad that the difficulties to admission are great?’
‘I owe my admission to the favour of Madame de Bauflremont, sir.’
‘A great patron, none more so. She would have befriended me once,’ added he, with an insolent sneer, ‘but that my ugliness displeased the Queen. Since that time, however, her Majesty has condescended to accustom herself to these harsh features, and even smiles benignly on them. There is little time to criticise the visage of your pilot, while the breakers are before and the rocks beside you. I will go, Gerald. Give me that ring.’