I was much startled by this proposal, and inclined to think it a trap; but further consideration dispelled my fears.  The innkeeper had held no parley with anyone save his guards and myself since his arrest, and could neither have warned his accomplices, nor acquainted them with any design the execution of which should depend on his confession to me.  I therefore accepted his terms—­with a private reservation that I should have help at hand—­and before daybreak next morning left Rosny, which I had only seen by torchlight, with my prisoner and a select body of Swiss.  We entered Paris in the afternoon in three parties, with as little parade as possible, and went straight to the Arsenal, whence, as soon as evening fell, I hurried with only two armed attendants to the Louvre.

A return so sudden and unexpected was as great a surprise to the court as to the king, and I was not slow to mark with an inward smile the discomposure which appeared very clearly on the faces of several, as the crowd in the chamber fell back for me to approach my master.  I was careful, however, to remember that this might arise from other causes than guilt.  The king received me with his wonted affection; and divining at once that I must have something important to communicate, withdrew with me to the farther end of the chamber, where we were out of earshot of the court.  I there related the story to his majesty, keeping back nothing.

He shook his head, saying merely:  “The fish to escape the frying pan, grand master, will jump into the fire.  And human nature, save in the case of you and me, who can trust one another, is very fishy.”

I was touched by this gracious compliment, but not convinced.  “You have not seen the man, sire,” I said, “and I have had that advantage.”

“And believe him?”

“In part,” I answered with caution.  “So far at least as to be assured that he thinks to save his skin, which he will only do if he be telling the truth.  May I beg you, sire,” I added hastily, seeing the direction of his glance, “not to look so fixedly at the Duke of Epernon?  He grows uneasy.”

“Conscience makes—­you know the rest.”

“Nay, sire, with submission,” I replied, “I will answer for him; if he be not driven by fear to do something reckless.”

“Good!  I take your warranty, Duke of Sully,” the king said, with the easy grace which came so natural to him.  “But now in this matter what would you have me do?”

“Double your guards, sire, for to-night—­that is all.  I will answer for the Bastile and the Arsenal; and holding these we hold Paris.”

But thereupon I found that the king had come to a decision, which I felt it to be my duty to combat with all my influence.  He had conceived the idea of being the one to accompany me to the rendezvous.  “I am tired of the dice,” he complained, “and sick of tennis, at which I know everybody’s strength.  Madame de Verneuil is at Fontainebleau, the queen is unwell.  Ah, Sully, I would the old days were back when we had Nerac for our Paris, and knew the saddle better than the armchair!”