“Yes, yes, you can tell all that to your marshal, and you can add that, if he comes here, although my beard is gray, I engage to prove to him, sword in hand and dagger in fist, that he is nothing but a hired assassin, and that his master, the cardinal,—God preserve the king from him,—is only a sort of Christian pacha, a thousand times more a despot than the Turk. You can tell him, too, to beware of pushing us to extremes, because we can remember a noble prince, brother of a good and noble king, blinded for the moment by this false priest, cousin of Beelzebub. You can tell him, too, that the nobility of Provence, worn out by so many outrages, would rather have for their sovereign Count Gaston of Orleans, than the King of France, since at this time the King of France is Richelieu.”
“Take care, baron,” whispered the lord of Signerol, “you are going too far.”
“Eh, Manjour!” cried the impetuous baron, “my head can answer for my words; but I have an arm, thank God, able to defend my head. Out of here, you knave! Open your long ears well, and shut them well to keep what you hear. As for our cannon and ammunition, you will see nothing of them. We will renounce our arms when the dogs beg the wolves to cut off their paws and pull out their teeth. Out of here, I say; and repeat my words, and worse, too, if it seems good to you!”
The recorder, having reached the gate, rapidly crossed the bridge, followed by his clerk and his guards, and as he mounted his horse, hurled a thundering anathema at the house of the baron.
Raimond V., delighted with the success of his trick, entered with his guests, and sat down to the table, as the hour of luncheon had just arrived.
The end of the long day passed away in joy, in the midst of gay conversation arising from this adventure.
From one of the windows of the castle, Honorât de Berrol had witnessed this scene. Knowing the obstinacy of his future father-in-law, he had not attempted remonstrance, but he could not repress his fear when he thought of the imprudent words Raimond V. had uttered on the subject of Gaston of Orleans.
CHAPTER XII. THE BOHEMIAN
Many days had elapsed since Master Isnard had been driven so unceremoniously from Maison-Forte des Anbiez.