First, he sought a messenger, a trusty honest man he knew of, himself an old disbanded soldier, and told him he must ride that night on a message of life and death. Would he promise to let nothing stand in his way?—he should be well rewarded.
"Never fear, monsieur. To where must I ride?"
"To Troyes. You can obtain a good horse?"
"Ay! or get a renfort on the road. 'Tis thirty leagues, but I will manage it. What have I to do when there?"
"This. Make for the Manoir de Roquemaure, then see at once la châtelaine, Mademoiselle de Roquemaure—she rules it since her mother's death. Next, give her this. Put it into her own hand and no other. In the name of God fail not! Again I say, it is life or death!"
"Fear not. I will not fail. In half an hour I am on the road. Hark! the clock strikes from the Tour St. Jacques; 'tis seven o'clock—ere it strikes the same hour in the morning I shall be there and to spare—or dead."
"Brave man! Good soldier! I believe you. Go."
What the old soldier was to give into the hand of Aurélie de Roquemaure was a letter containing the following hastily scribbled words:
"Mademoiselle: You spoke to me once of an unhappy gentleman, a chevau-léger; asked me if he was dead, and said you had some news would make him happy if he knew it. Mademoiselle, he is not dead, but dies on Monday, on the wheel—Monday morning next at dawn! He has returned to France, fought against Tourville on the high seas, is taken, and, as I say, condemned. If you have any power with the king, if you know aught that may weigh with him, I beseech you lose no effort. It is Monday morning, I repeat, at dawn that he dies. Your respectful servitor,
"Boussac."