"We shall not dispute over words," replied the Count. "By your own confession, you are liable to the law for killing Monsieur de Merri."
"I have reason to expect the King's pardon for that. Measures have already been taken."
"Pray don't keep me waiting, Monsieur. I should not like to be compelled to have my men lay hands on you." At the same time his smile looked as if he would like that very much.
There was nothing to do, for the moment, but yield. The Captain was watching to see where my hand moved, and I know not how many armed men were in the court-yard, besides the servants waiting at the other end of the hall. So I obeyed the Count's gesture, merely saying:
"You will find I am not a person who will go unavenged in case of indignity."
The Count laughed, in his dry, sharp manner, and walked by my side. The Captain followed. As soon as I was in my room, the Count called a servant, who went away and presently returned with a key. The Count and his friend then left me, and locked the door on the outside. As I sat down on my bed, I was glad I had offered no useless resistance, for, as it was, I had not been deprived of my weapons.
To make a short matter here of what seemed a very long one at the time, I was kept locked in my room all that day, with two armed men outside my door, as I guessed first from hearing them, and certified afterwards by seeing them when a servant brought my food. What made the confinement and inaction the more trying was my knowledge that this was the day on which the Countess was to plead her innocence. I kept wondering through the tedious hours how matters were going with her, and I often strained my ears in the poor hope of discovering by them what might be going on in the chateau. But I never heard anything but the rough speech and movements of the men outside my door, and now and then the voice of some attendant on the terrace below my window. I could look diagonally across the terrace to the window where I had seen Mathilde, but not once during all that day did I behold a sign of life there. The night came without bringing me any hint as to how the Countess had fared. I could not sleep till late.
When I woke, early in the morning, I noticed that my door was slightly ajar. Looking out, I found the corridor empty. I took this to mean that I was not to remain a prisoner, and so it proved. Hastily dressing and going downstairs, though many servants were about, I encountered no hindrance. I passed out to the terrace. To my surprise, nobody was on guard at the steps; so I went boldly down to the garden. My heart beat with a vague hope of meeting the Countess, though it was scarce late enough in the day to expect her to be out. I must confess it was not alone her being an oppressed lady whom I had engaged myself to aid, that made me look so eagerly down all the walks and peer so keenly into all the arbours; I must confess it was largely the impression her beauty and tenderness had left upon me. But I was disappointed: I explored the whole garden in vain.
Anything to be near her, I thought. So I went and hung about the door between the garden and her apartments. But it remained closed and enigmatic. I had another idea, and, returning into the house, took my way unchecked to the gallery of pictures, wondering at the freedom of passage now allowed me, and at the same time resolved to make the most of it. I could scarce believe my eyes when I saw the door ajar which led to Madame's suite. I went and tapped lightly on it, but got no answer. It opened to a large drawing-room, well furnished but without any inhabitant. I crossed this room to the other side, which had two doors, both open. One gave entrance to a sleeping-chamber, in a corner of which was a prie-dieu, and which showed in a hundred details to be the bedroom of a lady. But the bed was made up, and a smaller bed, in a recess, which might be that of the maid, also had the appearance of not having been used the previous night. I looked through the other doorway from the drawing-room, and saw a stairway leading down to the garden door. Had the Countess and Mathilde, then, gone into the garden at the time I was in the act of coming to the gallery? No; for the garden door was bolted on the inside. I went to one of the drawing-room windows looking on the terrace, and made sure it was the window from which Mathilde had first answered my call. And then it dawned upon me what the desertion of these rooms meant, and why I was allowed to go where I would in the house and garden. The Countess and her maid were no longer there. What had become of them?