“Corpo di Bacco!” M. Etienne exclaimed, with a face of childlike surprise.  “Some one is in a fine hurry to enter!  Do you not let him in, Sir Master of the Household?”

“I wonder who he’s got there now,” Pierre muttered to himself in French, staring in puzzled wise at the door.  Then he answered M. Etienne with a laugh: 

“No, my innocent; I do not let him in.  It might cost me my neck to open that door.  Come along now.  I must see you out and get back to my trenchers.”

We met not a soul on the stairs, every one, served or servants, being in the supper-room.  We passed the sentry without question, and round the corner without hindrance.  M. Etienne stopped to heave a sigh of thanksgiving.

“I thought we were done for that time!” he panted.  “Mordieu! another scored off Lucas!  Come, let us make good time home!  ’Twere wise to be inside our gates when he gets out of that closet.”

We made good time, ever listening for the haro after us.  But we heard it not.  We came unmolested up the street at the back, of the Hotel St. Quentin, on our way to the postern.  Monsieur took the key out of his doublet, saying as we walked around the corner tower: 

“Well, it appears we are safe at home.”

“Yes, M. Etienne.”

Even as I uttered the words, three men from the shadow of the wall sprang out and seized us.

“This is he!” one cried.  “M. le Comte de Mar, I have the pleasure of taking you to the Bastille.”

XXVII

The countersign.

Instantly two more men came running from the postern arch.  The five were upon us like an avalanche.  One pinned my arms while another gagged me.  Two held M. Etienne, a third stopping his mouth.

“Prettily done,” quoth the leader.  “Not a squeal!  Morbleu!  I wasn’t anxious to have old Vigo out disputing my rights.”

M. Etienne’s wrists were neatly trussed by this time.  At a word from the leader, our captors turned us about and marched us up the lane by Mirabeau’s garden, where Bernet’s blood lay rusty on the stones.  We offered no resistance whatever; we should only have been prodded with a sword-point for our pains.  I made out, despite the thickening twilight, the familiar uniform of the burgher guard; M. de Belin, having bagged the wrong bird once, had now caught the right one.

The captain bade one of the fellows go call the others off; I could guess that the job had been done thoroughly, every approach to the house guarded.  I gnashed my teeth over the gag, that I had not suspected the danger.  The truth was, both of us had our heads so full of mademoiselle, of Mayenne, and of Lucas, that we had forgotten the governor and his preposterous warrant.

They led us into the Rue de l’Eveque, where was waiting the same black coach that had stood before the Oie d’Or, the same Louis on the box.  Its lamps were lighted; by their glimmer our captors for the first time saw us fairly.