At ten o’clock that evening, the old Marechal, conducted by his valet, retired to the northern tower near the gateway, and opposite the river.  The heat was extreme; he opened the window, and, enveloping himself in his great silk robe, placed a heavy candlestick upon the table and desired to be left alone.  His window looked out upon the plain, which the moon, in her first quarter, indistinctly lighted; the sky was charged with thick clouds, and all things disposed the mind to melancholy.  Although Bassompierre had nothing of the dreamer in his character, the tone which the conversation had taken at dinner returned to his memory, and he reconsidered his life, the sad changes which the new reign had wrought in it, a reign which seemed to have breathed upon him a wind of misfortune—­the death of a cherished sister; the irregularities of the heir of his name; the loss of his lands and of his favor; the recent fate of his friend, the Marechal d’Effiat, whose chambers he now occupied.  All these thoughts drew from him an involuntary sigh, and he went to the window to breathe.

At that moment he fancied he heard the tramp of a troop of horse at the side of the wood; but the wind rising made him think that he had been mistaken, and, as the noise suddenly ceased, he forgot it.  He still watched for some time all the lights of the chateau, which were successively extinguished, after winding among the windows of the staircases and rambling about the courtyards and the stables.  Then, leaning back in his great tapestried armchair, his elbow resting on the table, he abandoned himself to his reflections.  After a while, drawing from his breast a medallion which hung concealed, suspended by a black ribbon, he said: 

“Come, my good old master, talk with me as you have so often talked; come, great King, forget your court for the smile of a true friend; come, great man, consult me concerning ambitious Austria; come, inconstant chevalier, speak to me of the lightness of thy love, and of the fidelity of thine inconstancy; come, heroic soldier, complain to me again that I obscure you in combat.  Ah, had I only done it in Paris!  Had I only received thy wound?  With thy blood the world has lost the benefits of thine interrupted reign—­”

The tears of the Marechal obscured the glass that covered the large medallion, and he was effacing them with respectful kisses, when, his door being roughly opened, he quickly drew his sword.

“Who goes there?” he cried, in his surprise, which was much increased when he saw M. de Launay, who, hat in hand, advanced toward him, and said to him, with embarrassment: 

“Monsieur, it is with a heart pierced with grief that I am forced to tell you that the King has commanded me to arrest you.  A carriage awaits you at the gate, attended by thirty of the Cardinal-Duke’s musketeers.”

Bassompierre had not risen:  and he still held the medallion in his right hand, and the sword in the other.  He tendered it disdainfully to this man, saying: