At last the moment came for us to start upon our perilous enterprise, and we stood at the door ready to mount, a couple of Swiss with us. There was no “good-by” said. To all intents we might have been making our daily visit to the Prince; but Cipierre’s hand lingered in that of his nephew, and when he took mine in his clasp, he gripped me like a vise in his excitement.
“Once free, you will ride hard, de Vibrac,” he whispered.
“Trust me for that, monsieur!” and, springing into the saddle, I followed Marcilly into the street.
The promise of the dawn had been fulfilled, and there was a dense fog in the air, blurring the outlines of the houses, and making the figures of the passers-by loom like indistinct shadows. In truth, it was difficult to see two yards ahead, and Marcilly, as he held his hand out before him, said:
“If it keeps like this, and we bring off the stroke, you will get out of Orleans without a question being asked.”
“De Bresy sticks in my mind,” I answered. “He never leaves us. I begin to fear he more than suspects.”
“We have provided for that in part. While you were away we arranged that the Prince should pretend to be suffering from a chill, and keep his bed.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I will go in and see him, and as I take the Prince’s place you and Vaux must settle with de Bresy. Vaux knows his part, and you must not fail.”
“A man will not cry out if a dagger at his throat commands silence,” I answered; “he will be killed at the first sound he utters.”