CHAPTER XI

FLIGHT

When Rochefort took his leave of Sartines and left the Chamber of Presentations, he made full speed for the corridor leading to the Escalier des Ambassadeurs, passed down the great staircase rapidly, pushed his way through the crowd thronging the hall, found Jaquin, the usher, on duty, and seizing him:

“Where is Monsieur Bertrand?” asked Rochefort.

“He is, no doubt, in the Cabinet of the Equipages, monsieur,” replied the usher.

“Good,” said Rochefort.

His carriage was waiting in the courtyard, but a carriage was too slow for his present purpose. He wanted a horse, and a swift horse, for the journey to Paris—wings, if possible, failing them, the swiftest horse in his Majesty’s stables.

Bertrand was the keeper of his Majesty’s horses, and Rochefort’s friend. The Cabinet of the Equipages was a moderately sized apartment. Here the King arranged each day what horses, what carriages and attendants he would require, and here Rochefort found his friend, deep in accounts and reports.

“My dear Bertrand,” said the Comte, “you see a man in a most desperate hurry. I must get to Paris at once. My carriage is too slow, and I have come to beg or steal a horse.”

Bertrand threw up his hands.

“Impossible! I have already been called to account for lending horses to my friends in a hurry. Ask me anything else, my dear Rochefort—my purse, my life, my heart—but a horse, no, a thousand times, no.”

“Ah, well,” said Rochefort, “I must tell a lie, and you will know the desperate urgency of my business from the fact that it makes me lie to you. Well, then, I come from de Sartines with an order of urgency. I am commanded to ask for your swiftest horse on a matter of State business.”

“So be it,” said Bertrand. “I cannot resist that order, and you must settle with Sartines.” He scribbled some words on a piece of paper, and, calling an attendant, gave it to him.

“The horse will be in the courtyard in a few minutes,” said Bertrand. “Well, I am sure to be interrogated over this, and M. de Sartines will give you the lie. You have weighed all that?”

“Sartines will support me,” said Rochefort. “We are very good friends; you need fear nothing. And now, adieu! And thank you for your good offices in this matter.”

He bade good-bye to Bertrand and returned through the still crowded hall to the door that gave exit from the palace.

Carriage after carriage was leaving, and the courtyard, as Rochefort came out, was ablaze with light. Burning with impatience, Rochefort watched the endless stream of carriages, the servants, and the guards, till, catching sight of a groom in the royal livery, leading a horse by the bridle, he was about to descend the steps when a hand fell upon his shoulder. He turned and found himself face to face with Camus. Behind Camus appeared the egg-shaped face of Monpavon—a man he hated—and beside Monpavon the boneless form of d’Estouteville.

“Monsieur,” said Rochefort, “you have taken a strange liberty with me.”

“Monsieur,” replied Camus, “I have come to take your freedom.”

He handed Rochefort the warrant of Choiseul. Rochefort read it by the light of the doorway, comprehended instantly the desperate seriousness of his position and the danger of resistance—besides the bad policy.

But M. de Rochefort was going to Paris, and policy, and danger, and even Choiseul himself, would not interfere with his purpose. He handed the paper back to Camus with a smile.

“Present it to-morrow at my apartments in Paris, Monsieur Camus. I shall be there at noon. If I am late, my servants will entertain you till my return. _Au revoir._”

He descended a step, and Camus, putting out a hand to seize him, received a blow on the belt that felled him as effectually as a blow on the head would have done. Next moment, Rochefort, dipping under the horses’ heads of the carriage that had just stopped to take up, reached the groom in royal livery and the horse which he was leading, seized the bridle, mounted, and plunged his spurless heels into its flanks.

Valmajour, for so was the big roan horse named, was not of a temper to stand treatment like this without marking his resentment of it. He bucked, as much as a French horse can, filled the yard with the sound of his hoofs on the great cobble-stones; then he came to hand and struck for the gate.

But Rochefort had reckoned without Monpavon and d’Estouteville. They had raised the hue and cry, the lackeys and soldiers had taken it up. Twenty voices were crying, “Bar the gate!” and as Rochefort approached the great gateway, he saw the Suisses crossing their pikes before the gateway, pike-head across pike-head at a level four feet from the ground. Valmajour checked slightly at the pull of the bridle, rose to the touch of Rochefort’s heel, and passed over the crossed pikes like a bird. A shout rose from the on-lookers as horse and rider disappeared from the zone of torchlight at the gate into the blacknesses beyond, and on the shout and like the materialized fury of it, a horse and rider shot out across the courtyard in pursuit.

It was d’Estouteville. That limp and enigmatic personage had, alone, perceived, standing amongst the equipages, the horse of M. de Beautrellis, captain of the Gardes; a groom was holding it for the gallant captain, who had entered the palace on some urgent business. D’Estouteville had seized the horse, mounted, and was now in pursuit. He knew Rochefort perfectly, and that Rochefort, in his present mood, would not be taken without a battle to the death. This, however, did not check him in the least; rather, perhaps, it was the mainspring of his suddenly found energy.

The Suisses, recognizing a pursuer, and in a pursuer authority, did not attempt to check him, and next moment he too had passed the zone of torchlight and was swallowed up by the darkness beyond.