There was something in his air, in his haughty speech and bearing, that overawed me. He was reading me like an open page.
“I”—I began, but he stopped me with a wave of his hand.
“Understand, monsieur, that I do not send you to join Ponthieu because I have other need of you. I have enough against you—even against Marcilly—to have you both put to the question, and to send you to the block—and you know the Edict of Romorantin. If you forget I will refresh your memory. Under the secret clause, the punishment for all spiritual offences remains in the hands of the bishops, and there is one to whom our Lord the Pope and His Majesty have confided the trust of the Holy Office, and he stands before you. But, I want you for other things, as I said, and it has occurred to me that it would be well if you appeared a free agent.”
“Monseigneur, you are pushing too far.”
“Bah! This is an abbey farm of my brother of St. Aignan, Vibrac, and I have gloves for the cat. I have ten stout fellows with me. I lodged them in the barns without for purposes of my own. Six stand now in the hall, and you would gain nothing by violence—you would be shot down like a mad dog—you grasp the position?”
I did. I was a campaigner old enough to know that I was outgeneralled, and my only chance was to play fox against fox.
“I see,” Achon continued, “you are sensible. You and Marcilly are going to Orleans. I could make sure that you did go to Orleans, but I will take a risk—I will let you go on one condition.”
There was all our game at stake. A false move now and nothing could save us. The cards were decidedly with the Bishop.
“The condition?”
“A very simple one—merely that you present yourself to me, in the castle at Orleans at noon, five days hence, and there, in the presence of Lorraine and the Chancellor, repeat what Ponthieu told you.”