Almost mechanically De Ganache took the paper and ran his eyes over it. As he did so his fingers seemed to lose power, for the paper slipped from his hand and fluttered to the ground. The Vidame picked it up, and said again:
"Your sword, monsieur!" And then, with a bitter scorn in his voice: "A traitor's game is a losing game, Monsieur le Vicomte, and the King knows you at last."
What the words meant I was to find out later, but they took all heart from De Ganache. He put his hand to his head as one dazed, and then, dropping it again, unbuckled his sword, and handed it to the Vidame without a word. There was a sharp whistle. The horses came up. De Ganache, who seemed utterly broken, was mounted on the spare horse. The troopers surrounded him, and then came the quick order:
"The Châtelet!" And they were gone.
"Harnibleu!" exclaimed the hostess, "that was not how Monsieur de Mailly allowed himself to be taken. He swore like the Constable, and fought right across the road, up to this very door, and might have escaped had he not tripped up. As for that hare there—pouf!" And with an expressive shrug of her shoulders and a snap of her fingers she went back to her spit.
I sat still, wondering, but with a great relief in my heart. There was a little talk, as will be when things of this kind occur, and then matters settled down. A few more customers came in. The twilight began to fall, and then, all at once, I saw two figures at the gate. They were mademoiselle and De Lorgnac. In a moment I had joined them, and together we went on towards the river face.
At the corner of the Rue St. Thomas, De Lorgnac bade us farewell, but as he left us I took the opportunity to whisper to him the news of De Ganache's arrest.
"Then put wings to your business," he said, and pressing my hand went off, and mademoiselle and I were alone. Silently she took the arm I offered, and we hastened towards the river.
It was the fall of the evening, and the moon, almost in its full, had already arisen, dividing the sky with the last lights of sunset. We had turned to the left on reaching the river, our faces towards the Châtelet, whose square grey walls frowned over the Pont au Change. Here and there the cloud edges still flamed in gold, that slowly faded to a fleecy silver-white before the moonlight. To our left was the long row of gabled houses, some of them seven storeys or more in height, that stretched, a jagged outline of pointed roofs and overhanging turrets, to the Rue St. Denis, there to be split up in the labyrinth of streets between St. Denis, St. Martin, and the purlieus of the Marais and the Temple. Above the houses peered the square tower of St. Jacques de la Boucherie, and in the weird half light the river droned along to our right. A grey, creeping mist was slowly covering the faubourgs and the Ile de la Cité. Through this, as it quivered onwards, one saw a limitless sea of roofs; and sharp and clear, for they were still in light, stood out the lofty campaniles of Ste. Chapelle and St. Severin. But what caught the eye and arrested the glance was that which rose from the very heart of the great city; for there, looming vast and immense, the stately pile of Nôtre Dame brooded over Paris.
Mademoiselle shivered on my arm. "Oh, monsieur, these streets, these houses, this immense city, they oppress me like a very spirit of evil!"