“Well, then, if anything happens to you, you will have only yourself to blame. I will leave you to digest that suggestion. Your life hangs in the balance. I will give you till to-morrow morning to make up your mind.”
“Go to the devil!”
“In that, I shall offer you the precedence.” And Beauvais backed out; backed out because Maurice had wrenched loose one of the bayonets.
Maurice flung the bayonet across the room, went back to his chair, and tore his ill-fated letters into ribbons. When this was done he stared moodily at the impromptu candlesticks, and tried to conceive the manner in which Beauvais's threat would materialize.
When the troops returned to their watch, they found the prisoner in a recumbent position, staring at the cracks in the floor, oblivious to all else save his thoughts, which were by no means charitable or humane. They resumed their game of cards. At length Maurice fell into a light slumber. The next time he opened his eyes it was because of a peculiar jar, which continued; a familiar, monotonous jar, such as the tread of feet on the earth creates. Tramp, tramp, tramp; it was a large body of men on the march. Soon this was followed by a lighter and noisier sound—cavalry. Finally, there came the rumbling of heavy metal—artillery. More than an hour passed before these varying sounds grew indistinct.
Maurice was now fully awake. An army had passed the Red Chateau.
CHAPTER XXIII. A GAME OF POKER AND THE STAKES
The next morning Beauvais came for his answer. It was not the answer he had expected.
“So be it,” he replied. “Your government had better appoint your successor at once. Good morning.”