“Not that if you can help it, Vibrac.”
“That is de Bresy’s affair,” I replied, and with these words we came to the gate of the house in the Rue Parisis.
The same formalities in regard to our entrance were observed as before, and leaving the horses outside with the Swiss, we walked into the courtyard, where de Bresy met us.
“That was an unlucky match at tennis,” he said, as he greeted us; “the Prince has taken a chill and keeps his bed.”
Our faces showed nothing but the utmost concern.
“He is not bad, I trust?” asked Marcilly, adding, “have you seen him?”
“Oh, yes! ’Tis but a chill that will pass off in a few days, unless——” and he hesitated.
“Let us not speak of it, de Bresy; we know what you mean,” and the archer swore under his breath, muttering something as we entered the corridor, followed even here by the fog, which filled the galleries and rooms of the prison with its blue, semi-opaque vapor.
“I never remember such a fog in Orleans,” said Marcilly, and almost at the same time I spoke myself:
“How went the match, de Bresy? You remember our wager?”