“Monsieur,” said he to St. Maline, “I see that you were told of the importance of my mission, and that, fearing some accident for me, you were good enough to take the trouble to escort me here:  now I will tell you that you were right; the king expects me, and I have important things to say to him.  I will tell the king what you have done for his service.”

St. Maline grew red and then pale; but he understood, being clever when not blinded by passion, that Ernanton spoke the truth, and that he was expected.  There was no joking with mm. de Loignac and d’Epernon; therefore he said, “You are free, M. Ernanton; I am delighted to have been agreeable to you.”

Ernanton waited for no more, but began to mount the staircase which led to the king’s room.  St. Maline followed him with his eyes, and saw De Loignac meet him on the stairs, and sign to him to come on.  De Loignac then descended to see the captives with his own eyes, and pronounced the road perfectly safe and free for the king’s return.  He knew nothing of the Jacobin convent, and the artillery and musketry of the fathers.  But D’Epernon did, being perfectly informed by Nicholas Poulain.  Therefore, when De Loignac came and said to his chief, “Monsieur, the roads are free,” D’Epernon replied: 

“Very well, the king orders that the Forty-five guards form themselves into three compact bodies, one to go before and one on each side of the carriage, so that if there be any firing it may not reach the carriage.”

“Very good!” said De Loignac, “only I do not see where firing is to come from.”

“At the priory of the Jacobins, monsieur, they must draw close.”

This dialogue was interrupted by the king, who descended the staircase, followed by several gentlemen, among whom St. Maline, with rage in his heart, recognized Ernanton.

“Gentlemen,” said the king, “are my brave Forty-five all here?”

“Yes, sire,” said D’Epernon, showing them.

“Have the orders been given?”

“Yes, sire, and will be followed.”

“Let us go, then!”

The light horse were left in charge of the prisoners, and forbidden to address a word to them.  The king got into his carriage with his naked sword by his side, and, as nine o’clock struck, they set off.

M. de Mayneville was still at his window, only he was infinitely less tranquil and hopeful, for none of his soldiers had appeared, and the only sound heard along the silent black road was now and then horses’ feet on the road to Vincennes.  When this occurred, Mayneville and the duchess vainly tried to see what was going on.  At last Mayneville became so anxious that he sent off a man on horseback, telling him to inquire of the first body of cavaliers he met.  The messenger did not return, so the duchess sent another, but neither reappeared.

“Our officer,” said the duchess, always hopeful, “must have been afraid of not having sufficient force, and must have kept our men to help him; it is prudent, but it makes one anxious.”