“An apple for your penny, Ponthieu—Condé will not die.”
He snapped his fingers. “You little know the Lorrainers. But I have that which would cut their combs, had I but four swift hoofs beneath me. See here, Vibrac! We are all hilt-deep in this business. If Condé dies, we die. Think of something.”
I kicked at the fireplace with my boot, and racked my brains until a thought—it was a forlorn hope—struck me.
“I have no horse to lend, Ponthieu, but,” and I smiled at the idea, “there is a chance. Perhaps the Bishop of Arles has one in the stable. Why not borrow it and go?”
He slapped his thigh and laughed out loudly, a big, strong laugh.
“Blood of a Jew! as we used to say in the Sicilies. Vibrac, you will die a marshal. The idea is excellent, and there is no time like the present. Ha! ha! ha!” and he rose to his feet.
“It is too early—wait till the little hours. If things go wrong, and the papers on you——”
“Never let your soup grow cold. It must be now or never. If I am caught, ’tis but a blank paper they will find; but you know the secret—a trifle of water, and—pff! No! I will have no help—you are mad, my good friend, think of your own affair.”
“True!” I answered. “You are right; but take my advice, and wait. You will lose your way—never get through the storm.”
“Way or no way, storm or no storm, I must risk it, and to-morrow Monsieur of Arles will have to exercise some of that Christian resignation he has no doubt often preached about.”