Sancerre’s words had their effect on the man. He had started perceptibly at the mention of the King’s pardon, and for a moment he was shaken. But Richelieu was a hardy villain, and steeled himself. He turned insolently from Sancerre, saying:
“I cannot stand here talking all night. Messieurs, your swords—or must I use force?”
But here Cipierre’s patience was exhausted. “Stay!” he cried. “I give you my word, monsieur, that if you do not produce your authority, and if you arrest these gentlemen by force without producing it, that I, Philibert de Marcilly, Captain of Orleans and Colonel-General of Cavalry, will break you like a reed. There is an old story, monsieur, of an earthen vessel and a metal pot going together down stream—you have worn the black robe, and ought to know the fable—and I take it you are wise enough to apply it. Come, sir, no more fencing; your authority.”
There was a ring in the Vicomte’s voice that showed he meant every word he said. It was one thing to beard Sancerre, who, highly placed as he was, held no great office; it was, however, quite another thing to cross Cipierre, whose power as Governor of Orleans, and as a general of cavalry, was sufficient to crush a man like Richelieu easily. He felt, too, that every moment he delayed weakened the ground under his feet, and made our belief that he held no warrant for the arrest a certainty. As a matter of fact, he had not, and confessed it the next moment.
“I have not the warrant with me,” he said, sullenly.
“Whose was the order, then—the King’s, the Chancellor’s?”
“My instructions were from the Cardinal,” and then, recovering his spirit, “and they are enough for me.”
Cipierre laughed harshly. “So, monsieur, your orders came from the Cardinal, and they are enough for you, are they? Since when did Charles of Lorraine become Colonel of Carabiniers? Or is it that you think you wear the iron and yellow of Guise, instead of the silver and red of the King’s House? Come, Sancerre, end this farce—show him the signet and let him be gone.”
Richelieu had paled to the lips with anger as Cipierre spoke; but prudence, and perhaps fear, kept him still—and now his eyes were fixed on the signet that Sancerre held toward him.
“It is the King’s,” he said, in a voice thick with rage.