“Are Cipierre and Sancerre to be let into our confidence?” I said in Spanish, to avoid any chance of the Swiss understanding our converse.
“I have been thinking of that a good deal,” Marcilly replied, “and it will all depend upon how far they are willing to go. Sancerre is ready enough to move, I believe—Maligny was strong in insisting on that. As for Cipierre, he may think himself bound by his office, as Captain of Orleans, not to do anything.”
“In that case we are leaning on a very doubtful support if we trust to Cipierre to get us access to the palace to-night.”
“Not so. He will do that much. He hates the Guise, and, rough soldier as he is, he loves me well. There may be a little difficulty, and I may have to use some of the diplomacy I learned in the Spanish Embassy; but we will get our interview with Catherine. Once arouse their enthusiasm, and they will be with us for good and all. Courage! We have little to fear on that score.”
We were in the Hallebarde at the time of this conversation, and the contrast, between the state of the streets on our entry into the town and now, was marked. The expiation was over, and the Loire was carrying down its sluggish current the ashes of the unfortunate victim of a ferocious bigotry. Orleans had returned to its hive, but still the excitement of the awful scene had not passed. The Hallebarde was full, and the shops had reopened, even for the short time that lay between this and the hour, nine o’clock, by which, under the edict, all lights were to be extinguished.
The street itself was dim, lit only by stray lanterns, hanging at long intervals, on ropes that ran across from house to house, but the pavement was awake to the tramp of passing feet, and men and women flitted before us like gray shadows, or stood out in bold silhouette against the lights from the doors of a cabaret, or the windows of a shop, or maybe dwelling-house. Every now and again a group of lackeys, with drawn swords and lighted torches, would pass us, escorting the litter of some court lady or priest of rank, and almost at every hundred paces we met a party of mounted men, who went by us with a clattering of arms, and a flashing of steel, while above the insistent hum of voices we often caught a word or phrase, that told us what was the one subject of conversation. They were full of what had happened, and of what was to be.
It was, however, in the Rue du Tabourg that a thing occurred that seemed to be an omen of success. We were at the spot where the Cheval Rouge crosses the Tabourg, and were for a moment arrested by a crowd gathered around the entrance to an ordinary, and extending from the door itself almost across the street. As we came up we heard a voice cry out loudly: “Imbeciles! Wait till the 10th. The expiation of our Caillaud will be nothing to that. We will see something on the 10th.” And the speaker, a tall, thin man, with projecting teeth and a wrinkled face, stood in the full glare of the light, swinging his arms over his head.
“And what will we see?” questioned a voice from the crowd.
The tall man looked around him, and into the darkness. He was about to say something, but the people answered for him:
“The Prince! The Prince dies on the 10th!”