CHAPTER III
THE ARREST

Almost at the same moment ten or twelve men burst into the room rather than entered it, the noise that continued outside let it be guessed that a great number of others was standing on the stairs and in the passages, ready, were it required, to come to the assistance of the others.

All these men were armed, and it was easy to recognise them at once as guards of the King, or rather of His Eminence the Cardinal.

Only two of them, with crafty looks and squinting eyes, dressed in black like ushers, had no visible weapons; these, in all probability were more to be feared than the others, for beneath their feline obsequiousness they doubtless concealed an implacable will to do evil.

One of these two men held some papers in his right hand, he advanced two or three paces, cast a suspicious glance around him, and then took off his cap with a courteous bow.

"In the King's name! gentleman," he said in a quick sharp voice.

"What do you want?" the Count de Barmont asked, advancing resolutely towards him.

At this movement, which he took for a hostile demonstration, the man in black recoiled with an ill-disguised start of terror, but feeling himself backed up by his acolytes, he at once resumed his coolness, and answered with a smile of evil augury —

"Ah! Ah! The Count Ludovic de Barmont, I believe," he remarked with an ironical bow.

"Yes, sir," the gentleman replied haughtily, "I am the Count de Barmont."

"Captain in the navy," the man in black imperturbably added, "at present, commanding His Majesty's, frigate The Erigone."

"As I told you, sir, I am the person you are in search of," the Count added.

"It is really with you that I have to deal, my lord," he replied, as he drew himself up. "S'death, my good gentleman, you are not easy to catch up; I have been running after you for a week, and was almost despairing about having the honour of a meeting."

All this was said with an obsequious air, a honeyed voice, and with a sweet smile, sufficient to exasperate a saint, and much more the person whom the strange man was addressing, and who was endowed with anything but a placable character.

"By Heaven!" he exclaimed, stamping his foot passionately; "Are we to have much more of this?"

"Patience, my good sir," he replied in the same placid tone; "patience, good Heaven, how quick you are!" then after taking a glance at the papers he held in his hand, "Since by your own confession you allow yourself to be really Count Ludovic de Barmont, captain commanding His Majesty's frigate Erigone, by virtue of the orders I bear, I arrest you in the King's name, for the crime of desertion; for having without authorization abandoned your vessel in a foreign country, that is to say, at the Port of Lisbon, in Portugal." Then raising his head and fixing his squinting eyes on the gentleman, he added, "Surrender your sword to me, my lord."

M. de Barmont shrugged his shoulders disdainfully.

"The sword of a gentleman of my race shall never be placed in the hands of a scoundrel of your stamp," he said, with contempt; and drawing his sword, he coldly broke the blade across his knee, and threw the fragments through the window panes, which they broke.

Then he drew his pistols from his belt and cocked them.

"Sir, sir!" the myrmidon exclaimed, recoiling in terror, "This is rebellion, remember, rebellion against the express orders of His Majesty and His Eminence the Cardinal Minister."

The Count smiled disdainfully, and raising his pistols in the air, fired them, the bullets being buried in the ceiling; then clasping them by the barrel he threw them also out of the window; after which he crossed his hands on his chest, and said coolly —

"Now do with me what you please."

"Have you surrendered, my lord?" the fellow asked with ill-disguised alarm.

"Yes, from this moment I am your prisoner."

The man in black breathed again; although he was unarmed, the haughty gentleman still made him feel uncomfortable.

"Still," the latter added, "allow me to say a couple of words to this lady;" and he pointed to Doña Clara, who, waited upon by Dame Tiphaine, who had hurried in at the disturbance in spite of her husband's entreaties and orders, was beginning to regain her senses.

"No, not a word, not a syllable," the Duke exclaimed, as he threw himself between his daughter and the Count; "remove the villain, remove him."

But the bailiff, pleased with the facility the Count had displayed in surrendering to him, and not wishing to excite his anger, pleased above all at being able to show his authority without incurring resistance, bravely interposed.

"Pray, sir, allow the gentleman to speak to the lady," he said, "and to unburden his heart."

"But this man is an assassin," the Duke shouted violently, "before us is still lying the corpse of my unhappy son, killed by him."

"I pity you, sir," the myrmidon said without being at all affected; "I cannot offer any remedy for that; and you must make application in the proper quarter. Still, if it can be of any comfort to you, be convinced that I shall make a careful note of the accusation you bring, and will recall it to mind at the right time and place. But you must be equally eager to get rid of us, as we are to get away from here: hence allow this gentleman to bid farewell to the lady quietly, and I am convinced it will not take long."

The Duke darted a ferocious glance at the bailiff; but, not wishing to compromise himself with such a fellow, he did not answer, and fell back with a gloomy air.

The Count had watched this altercation without displaying either impatience or anger; with pale forehead and frowning brow, he waited, doubtless ready to break into some terrible extremity if his request were not granted.

The bailiff only required to take one look at him to guess what was passing in his heart; and, not feeling at all anxious for a fresh contest to begin, he had prudently manoeuvred to avoid it.

"Come," he said, "speak, my worthy gentleman, no one will oppose it."

"Thanks," the Count answered hoarsely and approached Doña Clara, who watched him advance with an ardent gaze fixed on him.

"Clara," he said to her in a firm and deeply marked voice, "do you love me?"

She hesitated for a moment and bowed her head while heaving a profound sigh.

"Do you love me?" he repeated.

"I do love you, Ludovic," she replied in a faint and trembling voice.

"Do you love me, as your husband before God and man, as the father of your child?"

The young lady rose, her black eyes flashed fire, and stretching out her hands before her, she said in a voice choked by emotion —

"In the presence of my father, who is ready to curse me, before the body of my dead brother and in the face of the men who are listening to me, I swear, Ludovic, that I love you as the father of my child, and that I shall remain faithful to you, whatever may happen."

"Very good, Clara," he answered, "God has received your oath and will help you to keep it; remember that, whether dead or alive, you belong to me as I belong to you, and that no person on earth shall break the ties that unite us. Now farewell, and keep your courage."

"Farewell!" she muttered, as she fell back in her chair and buried her face in her hands.

"Let us go, gentlemen! Do with me what you please," the Count said as he turned to the exempt and the guards, who were involuntarily affected by this scene.

The Duke bounded with a tiger leap on his daughter, and seizing her right arm with a frenzied gesture, he forced her to raise her tear-swollen face to his, and fixing on her a glance loaded with all the rage that swelled his heart, he said in a voice which fury rendered sibilant —

"Daughter, prepare to marry within two days, the man I destine for you. As for your child, you will never see it again; it no longer exists for you."

The young lady uttered a cry of despair and fell back deprived of her senses in the arms of Dame Tiphaine.

The Count, who at this moment was leaving the room, stopped short and turned round to the Duke with his arm stretched out toward him:

"Hangman," he shouted in a hoarse voice which chilled his auditors with horror, "I curse you, I swear on my honor as a gentlemen to take on you and yours so terrible a vengeance, that the memory of it shall remain eternal; and if I cannot reach you, you and the whole nation to which you belong shall be buried beneath the implacable weight of my hatred. Between us henceforth there is a war of savages and wild beasts, without truce or mercy; farewell."

And leaving the proud Spaniard horrified by this fearful anathema, the gentleman quitted the room with a firm step, and taking a last loving glance at the woman he adored, from whom he was perhaps eternally separated.

The passages, stairs, and inn garden were filled with armed men; it was evidently a miracle that the two sailors had succeeded in escaping and getting away safe and sound; this gave the Count, hope and he went down the stairs with an assured step, carefully watched by his escort who did not let him out of sight.

The guards had been long before warned that they would have to do with a naval officer possessing an inordinate violence of character, prodigious vigour and indomitable courage; hence the resignation of the prisoner, which they believed to be assumed, only inspired them with very slight confidence, and they were continually on the defensive.

When they came out into the garden the chief of the exempts noticed the coach, which was still standing at the door.

"Why," he said with a grin and rubbing his hands, "here's the very thing we want. In our hurry to get here, we forgot to provide ourselves with a coach; be good enough to get in, my lord," he said as he opened the door.

The Count got in without any further hesitation; and the exempts then addressed the driver who was sitting motionless on his box.

"Come down, scamp," he said in a tone of authority; "I require the use of this coach for an affair of state. Give up your place to one of my men. Wideawake," he added, turning to a tall impudent looking fellow standing by his side, "get up on the box in that man's place – let us be off."

The driver did not attempt to resist this peremptory order; he descended and his place was immediately taken by Wideawake; the exempt then entered the carriage, seated himself facing his prisoner, closed the door, and the steeds, aroused by a vigorous, lash, dashed forward dragging after them the heavy vehicle round which the twenty odd soldiers were collected.

For a considerable period the coach rolled along without a word being exchanged between the prisoner and his guard.

The Count was thinking, the exempt sleeping, or, to speak more correctly, pretending to sleep.

In the month of March the nights are beginning to shorten; daylight soon appeared, and broad white stripes were beginning to cross the sky.

The Count, who up to this moment had remained motionless, gave a slight start.

"Are you suffering, my lord?" the exempt inquired. This question was addressed to him with an intonation so different from that hitherto employed by the man who had made him prisoner; there was in the sound of his voice an accent so really gentle and sympathizing, that the Count involuntarily started, and took a fixed look at his singular companion: but so far as he could see by the faint light of coming dawn, the man in front of him still had the same crafty face and the same ironical smile stereotyped on his lips. The Count found himself in error, and throwing himself back, merely uttered one word, "No," in a tone intended to break off any attempt at conversation between his guardian and himself.

But the former was probably in a humour for talking, for he would not be checked; and pretending not to remark the manner in which his advances had been received, he continued —

"The nights are still chill, the breeze enters this coach on all sides, and I feared lest the cold had struck you."

"I am habituated to suffer heat and cold," the Count answered; "besides, it is probable that if I have not yet made my apprenticeship, I am about to undergo one which will accustom me to endure everything without complaining."

"Who knows, my lord?" the exempt said, with a shake of the head.

"What?" the other objected, "Am I not condemned to a lengthened captivity in a fortress?"

"Yes, according to the terms of the order, which it is my duty to carry out."

There was a momentary silence. The Count gazed absently at the country which the first beams of day were beginning to illumine. At length he turned to the exempt.

"May I ask whither you are taking me?" he said.

"I see no objection to your doing so."

"And you will answer my question?"

"Why not? There is nothing to prevent it."

"Then we are going?"

"To the isles of St. Marguerite, my lord."

The Count trembled inwardly. The islands of Lerins, or Sainte Marguerite, enjoyed at that time, even, a reputation almost as terrible as the one they acquired at a later date, when they served as a prison to the mysterious iron mask, whom it was forbidden to take even a glance at under penalty of death.

The exempt looked at him fixedly without speaking.

It was the Count who again resumed the conversation.

"Where are we now?" he asked.

The exempt bent out of the window, and then resumed his seat.

"We are just arriving at Corbeil, where we shall change horses."

"Ah!" said the Count.

"If you wish to rest, I can give orders for an hour's stay. Perhaps you feel a want of some refreshment?"

This singular man was gradually acquiring in the Count's eyes all the interest of an enigma.

"Very good," he said.

Without replying the exempt let down the window.

"Wideawake!" he shouted.

"What is the matter?" the latter asked.

"Pull up at the Golden Lion."

"All right."

Ten minutes later the coach halted in the Rue St. Spire, in front of a door over which creaked a sign representing an enormous gilt cat, with one of its paws on a ball. They had arrived.

The exempt got out, followed by the Count, and both entered the inn: one portion of the escort remained in the saddle in the street, while the others dismounted and installed themselves in the common room.

The Count had mechanically followed the exempt, and on reaching the room, seated himself in a chair by the fire, in a first floor decently furnished room. He was too busy with his own thoughts to attach any great attention to what was going on around him.

When the landlord had left them alone, the exempt bolted the door inside, and then placed himself in front of his prisoner.

"Now," he said, "let us speak frankly, my lord."

The latter, astonished at this sudden address, quickly raised his head.

"We have no time to lose in coming to an understanding, sir; so please to listen without interrupting me," the exempt continued. "I am François Bouillot, the younger brother of your foster father. Do you recognise me?"

"No," the Count replied, after examining him attentively for a moment.

"That does not surprise me, for you were only eight years old the last time I had the honor of seeing you at Barmont Castle: but that is of no consequence; I am devoted to you, and wish to save you."

"What assures me that you are really François Bouillot, the brother of my foster father, and that you are not attempting to deceive me?" the Count answered, in a suspicious accent.

The exempt felt in his pocket, pulled out several papers, which he unfolded, and presented them open to the Count.

The latter looked at them mechanically: they consisted of a baptismal certificate, a commission, and several letters proving his identity. The Count handed him the letters back.

"How is it that you should have been the man to arrest me, and arrived so opportunely to aid me?" he asked.

"In a very simple way, my lord: your order of arrest was obtained from the Cardinal Minister by the Dutch Embassy. I was present when M. de Laffemas, a familiar of his Eminence, who is kind to me, left the Palais Cardinal order in hand: I was there, and he chose me. Still, as I was able to decline, I should have done so, had I not seen your name on the paper, and remembered the kindness your family had shown to me and my brother. Taking advantage of the opportunity my profession of exempt offered me, I resolved to repay you what your friends have done for mine, by attempting to save you."

"That does not seem to me very easy, my poor friend."

"More so than you may fancy, my lord: I will leave here one-half our escort, and then only ten will remain with us."

"Hum! That is a very decent number," the Count replied, involuntarily interested.

"They would be too many if there were not among the ten men seven of whom I am certain, which reduces the number of those we have to fear to three. I have been running after you for a long time, my lord," he added, with a laugh, "and all my precautions are taken: through some excuse, easy to be found, we will pass through Toulon, and on arriving there, we will stop for an hour or two at a hostelry I know. You will disguise yourself as a mendicant monk, and leave the inn unnoticed. I will take care to get rid of the guards I am not certain of. You will proceed to the port furnished with papers I will hand you; you will go on board a charming chasse-marée, called the Seamew, which I have freighted on your account, and which is waiting for you. The master will recognise you by a password I will tell you, and you will be at liberty to go whither-soever you please. Is not this plan extremely simple, my lord?" he asked, rubbing his hands joyously, "And have I not foreseen everything?"

"No, my friend," the Count answered with emotion, as he offered him his hand; "there is one more thing you have not foreseen."

"What is that, my lord?" he asked, in surprise.

"That I do not wish to fly," the young man answered, with a melancholy shake of the head.