Vaux had made a step nearer his man. His eyes were blazing. I could not have stayed him if I would; but at that moment there was a noise at the door, and the page had just time to turn to his window like a flash, when Comminges entered the room.
“Monsieur!” he said bluntly, addressing de Bresy, “here is a letter for you.”
“Thanks, Comminges,” and as de Bresy took the letter I glanced at the soldierly figure of the lieutenant. It was evident that he was one who had risen from the ranks, and twenty years of war had left their scars on his rough features. There he stood, the type of the soldier who has become a machine, whose life is regulated by his orders, and as I took in the square jaw, the firm, resolute features, and keen, deep-set eyes, I thought to myself that it would be a far cry to the gates of the prison even if de Bresy were disposed of. And as my mind ran on thus, a low exclamation burst from de Bresy. He crumpled the paper in his hand, saying as he did so:
“There is no answer, Comminges.”
The subaltern bowed stiffly and withdrew.
“It is infamous,” said de Bresy as if to himself, and then he caught my eager look and Vaux’s glance—the page had turned from the window and approached us when Comminges spoke. His hand, however, no longer held a poniard.
“There is nothing new against the Prince?” I asked, and de Bresy laughed uneasily.
“Monsieur of Arles writes to me to prepare the cachot for our prisoner to-night.”
“The cachot!”
“Yes. ’Tis a dog’s business, and but that my honor is pledged, I would see it to the winds—a Prince of the blood in the cachot!”