“Ah! you refuse?” remarked the cardinal, looking at him unmoved; “then, your highness, I must lay the evidence in my hands before the council, and your only hope will be in the king’s clemency.”
There was a pause, and the two stood looking at each other. Richelieu was as calm and cold as ever, while the prince was white with fury, and terror was growing in his eyes.
“Morbleu, you are a devil!” he said, flinging himself into his chair and bursting into tears.
Monsignor looked up at the clock.
“In half an hour,” he said, “his majesty’s provost-marshal will be here from Paris. It is for your highness to decide whether you will return with him or not.”
“You dare not!” cried Monsieur, with a snarl, “you have no warrant.”
Richelieu showed him a paper bearing the royal seal.
“This was signed yesterday in the Louvre, M. d’Orléans,” he said.
The prince stared at it, his lips parting and his breath coming short.
“I would not have believed it of Louis!” he exclaimed, wringing his hands.