And as solemnly as we had come we marched back through the first and second and third doors until we stood again in the silence of the Cardinal’s chamber—he and I and the velvet-footed man in black. For a while Richelieu seemed to forget me. He stood brooding on the hearth, his eyes on a small fire, which burned there though the weather was warm. Once I heard him laugh, and twice he uttered in a tone of bitter mockery the words,—
‘Fools! Fools! Fools!’
At last he looked up, saw me, and started.
‘Ah!’ he said, ‘I had forgotten you. Well, you are fortunate, M. de Berault. Yesterday I had a hundred clients; to-day I have only one, and I cannot afford to hang him. But for your liberty that is another matter.’
I would have said something, pleaded something; but he turned abruptly to the table, and sitting down wrote a few lines on a piece of paper. Then he rang his bell, while I stood waiting and confounded.
The man in black came from behind the screen.
‘Take this letter and that gentleman to the upper guard-room,’ the Cardinal said sharply. ‘I can hear no more,’ he continued, frowning and raising his hand to forbid interruption. ‘The matter is ended, M. de Berault. Be thankful.’
In a moment I was outside the door, my head in a whirl, my heart divided between gratitude and resentment. I would fain have stood to consider my position; but I had no time. Obeying a gesture, I followed my guide along several passages, and everywhere found the same silence, the same monastic stillness. At length, while I was dolefully considering whether the Bastille or the Chatelet would be my fate, he stopped at a door, thrust the letter into my hands, and lifting the latch, signed to me to enter.
I went in in amazement, and stopped in confusion. Before me, alone, just risen from a chair, with her face one moment pale, the next crimson with blushes, stood Mademoiselle de Cocheforet. I cried out her name.
‘M. de Berault,’ she said, trembling. ‘You did not expect to see me?’