It was Condé who spoke, and Achon answered him:
“Back to the Rue Parisis, Monseigneur—and if your Highness will give me your faith not to escape, I have no wish to deprive you of your sword.”
“I make no pledge—give no promise.”
“Your Highness must then be treated as the others. Richelieu, you will receive Monseigneur’s sword.”
Richelieu stepped forward, but Condé said coldly:
“You mistake, monsieur; a Prince cannot surrender his sword to an unfrocked friar, and”—he looked at Achon—“still less to a priest.”
Richelieu bit his lips with anger, but Achon smiled again, his cynical, mocking smile, and turned to me.
“Monsieur de Vibrac! There can be no higher honor than to receive the surrender of a Bourbon. I confer it upon you for your services—will you have the goodness to take His Highness’ sword? It will make us quits on the score of Ponthieu—and other things.”
The devilish malignity of the man stunned me. I could say nothing, but stood there like a stone. Every eye was fixed upon me; and then Achon continued, in his cold, measured voice:
“Monseigneur! You look as if you thought me mad. Let me tell you that I am only paying a traitor his account. Every detail of the plan for your escape was disclosed to us by your good friend there—ask him to deny it if he can.”