“Morbleu!” exclaimed Cipierre. “This is too much, monsieur! I demand your authority!”
Richelieu shrugged his shoulders. “It is at the door, Monsieur le Vicomte,” and he pointed to his troopers where they stood, grim and motionless.
There was a veiled triumph in his voice, a studied insolence in his manner, that made our blood boil, and Cipierre, ever hasty, was roused at once.
“You will do this at your peril, sir,” he began, but Sancerre stayed him, and, turning toward Richelieu, looked him steadily in the face, as he asked:
“Monsieur, do I understand you to say you have the orders of the King—the King, mind you—for your action?”
But Richelieu was not to be browbeaten. He cocked his hat fiercely on the side of his head, and answered with a haughtiness equal to that of the Count:
“Monsieur de Sancerre! It is sufficient for me that I have my orders. It is my duty to see them carried out, and yours, monsieur, not to hinder me.”
“Precisely! Provided you have orders.”
“Monsieur!”
“Come, monsieur! There must be some mistake. One does not arrest gentlemen who have but a moment ago received the King’s pardon. If you have the King’s warrant, produce it, and the matter is ended.”