A moment after we were in the hall of Cipierre’s house, grouped around the letter, which I had handed to Marcilly, while a tall Swiss held a lighted candle so that we could read.
“From the Princess,” said Jean, cutting the yellow seals with the point of his dagger, and we bent over and read with him. It was from madame herself, explaining her change of plan, and stating that she, with a small suite, were at the moment lying in safe concealment in the deserted château of St. Loup. She went on to say it was here her husband was to be brought, and that she had horses provided to take the Prince, not to Poitou, but to her uncle, the Constable.
“Montmorenci,” said Cipierre; “that is not so bad. He is closer than Coligny.”
“Yes, there is something in this, especially as from what passed to-day between Sancerre and the Queen-Mother, I gather that the old fox is leaving his earth,” I said, and added, “but does not madame say anything of this?”
“Not a word! Stay! You are right,” and Marcilly turned over the page. “It’s here in the postscript. The Constable has moved from Yvoy le Marron. If this is true, ’tis only a five-league ride to reach him, if we could but effect the escape the day after to-morrow.”
“Bravo, Ponthieu!” I burst out.
“Ponthieu! Eh! What do you mean?” asked Cipierre.
“That the Constable would never have moved but for a gallant gentleman of Gascony, one Perducas de Ponthieu, who risked his life ten times over for the Cause—but the story is a long one, monsieur, and it grows late.”
As I spoke, the huge clock in the hall struck midnight, and the bronze bell in the courtyard clanged out a hoarse echo of the hour.
“Ste. Croix! I did not believe we were so far into to-morrow,” said Cipierre; “it is, indeed, too late for further talk, gentlemen, and you need rest.”