Outside we found the horses, and, mounting them, rode slowly off, followed by the Swiss.
As we entered the square of Ste. Croix I reined in, and, calling the Swiss up to me, said to them:
“Go, and await us at the palace gates. If we are not there in an hour, you may return home and tell the Vicomte.”
They were men to whom orders were orders, not things to be questioned. They simply saluted and rode on, gray shadows in the mist; and then I said to the Prince:
“Now, Monseigneur!”
He was leaning back in his saddle, straining his eyes through the yellow fog back upon the Rue Parisis.
“If they touch a hair of their heads,” he muttered, “they will never forget the vengeance of Bourbon,” and he turned to me as I pressed him again with another reminder.
“Come, de Vibrac! You are right. Let us hasten.”
We put our horses to the trot, slipping through the dim day like ghosts, down the long streets where the houses loomed on each hand like phantom buildings, through the straggling Portereau, and at last, freeing the gates, gained the open country.
Condé rode a little in front of me, his hat pulled over his brows, the collar of his coat well turned up, and his head held down. We went on in silence, for it was not a time for talk.