I was well known as a devoted _Masarin_, and it was no secret that the Cardinal, though banished, still communicated with his friends in the capital. What more likely then, than that the attempt on Conde's life was made by _Masarins_? And if so, who more likely to lead it than the penniless youth who had refused point-blank to join any of the other parties? Mazarin, it would be asserted, must have left me in Paris for this very purpose. Then again the crafty plotters had so arranged that everything would fit neatly into place. It could easily be proved that I had suddenly disappeared and remained in hiding till the appointed night, when, having failed in my object, I had hurriedly and secretly left the city. This, I concluded, was the outline of the plot, but De Retz and my cousin had not made allowance for the cowardly treachery of Maubranne and Peleton. These worthies, by both of whom I had the honour of being much hated, had worked out a different, and to them, a much more satisfactory ending. If Conde's assassin could be caught, red-handed as it were, and slain by the angry people, there would be an end to the business. For this purpose they had conducted the mob to my prison, but the speedy arrival of the soldiers had upset their plans; Maubranne was dead, and I lay on a mattress in La Calotte de la Baziniere. "_Peste!_" I exclaimed irritably, "I have intrigued myself into an ugly mess. This comes of being too clever. What will they do with me, I wonder?" The situation was indeed serious. With the exception of Raoul, D'Arcy, and John Humphreys, I had no friends, and these three could do little. De Retz would naturally use all his powerful influence to prove my guilt, and as likely as not I should be condemned without a trial. As far as I could judge the future did not look particularly bright. As soon as dawn came straggling through the window I rose and peered about me. The room arched to support the roof, and only in the middle was it possible to stand upright. It contained but one window, having, both outside and inside, double iron gratings. The furniture consisted of a worm-eaten chair, a table with a leg broken, an empty jug, a mattress, and two flagstones on which in cold weather a fire could be built. Raoul once told me of a man who had escaped from the Bastille, but I fancy he could not have been lodged in my cell. I could tell by the window that the walls were tremendously thick, while the door was of iron, and fastened on the outside by massive bolts. Still I was not altogether discouraged, and, dragging the table beneath the aperture, I climbed to the top. Crash! I had forgotten the broken leg, and fell to the ground, wrecking the table and giving myself a considerable shock.