“Cap de Diou! That explains things,” he said. “And to go on. At the demand for the letter, I thanked the saints in my heart that the Admiral had given me a decoy duck, an empty sealed packet, which I had sewn in my vest, while the real letter, the blank paper itself, lay on the inside of the sole of my boot.”
“Then Achon never got that?” I eagerly asked.
Ponthieu laughed as he stuck out his left foot. “It is here,” he said, as he went on: “I, of course, could not answer, but mumbled something under the gag, and, seeing this, they undid the bandage, and asked the question again, the man who had first spoken saying that if I would keep my skin I had best speak out at once. I pretended to be overcome with fear, and told them of the letter, begging with a trembling voice for my life. They cut open my vest in a moment, and when they found the letter, I began to implore and entreat again for my life, saying I would tell all if they would but free me.
“‘Ugh!’ said one of them, as he gave me a kick. ‘’Tis the whitest-livered cur I have seen—the cachots are too good for him—he is best in the stocks.’
“Then, despite my protestations, they gagged me again, and flung me into the loft of the stables, bidding me lie there till the morning, and though I ached with the pain of the cords, I laughed in my heart to think that my letter was safe as yet. Boun!” he exclaimed, with his strong southern accent, “Boun! It was safe as yet; but for how long! That I could not tell. Through the chill hours I lay there, till I heard the cock crow, and there was a bustle, and you all departed. I could hear your voices but could neither speak nor move.”
“By heaven! If we had known you were so close, Ponthieu, we would have struck a blow for you then.”
“You have done so now, to make amends,” he said, as he continued: “About a half-hour after you were gone, my friends returned and, setting me on a horse, we rode off in the direction of Loches. I forgot to say they had removed my gag, and the ropes from my feet, though my hands remained securely tied. Beyond Beaulieu we met the Princess of Condé and her suite on the way to Orleans.”
“What!” exclaimed Marcilly and I in a breath.
“Eh!” said Ponthieu, “you seem surprised, but it is as I said.”
“Souvent femme varie,” muttered Jean, under his breath, as I hastened to ask: