The Cardinal had no sooner assured himself that the conference was at an end, than he emerged from his hiding-place, and advancing to the centre of the closet, he cast himself heavily upon a seat, exclaiming with bitter irony, "What think you, my reverend Father, are not these wily conspirators? Are not these prudent and proper counsellors for an ambitious and headstrong woman? But they have done me good service, and I thank them. Let me see; I love justice, and I must not wrong even those who have the will to be less forbearing to myself. A pen, Joseph, a pen, lest my memory prove treacherous and I disappoint their tastes." The Capuchin hastened to obey; writing implements stood upon the table near which the Cardinal was seated; and in another moment he was scribbling, in the ill-formed and straggling characters peculiar to him, upon the back of a despatch. "So, so," he muttered between his set teeth, "the gallant Maréchal de Marillac has an affection for the block: so be it; a scaffold is easily constructed. And M. de Guise is an amateur of exile and of beggary: truly it were a pity to thwart his fancy; and France can well spare a prince or two without making bankrupt of her dignity. Bassompierre, the volatile and restless Bassompierre, the hero of the Court dames, and the idol of the Court ballets, favours the seclusion of a prison; there is space enough for him in the one which he has selected, and his gorgeous habiliments will produce the happiest effect when contrasted with the gloomy walls of the good old fortress. And my colleague, my destined successor, did he not talk of the galleys? I had never given him credit for sufficient energy to prefer the oar to the pen, and the chain of a felon to the seals of a minister of state; but since he will have it so, by the soul of Jean du Plessis, so shall it be!" And as he terminated this envenomed monologue the Cardinal thrust the fatal paper into his breast, and clasped his hands convulsively together; his dim eyes flashed fire, his thin lips quivered, his pale countenance became livid, and the storm of concentrated passion shook his frail form as with an ague-fit. "The day is your own," said the Capuchin calmly; "you are now face to face with your enemies, and you know all the joints in their armour. Every blow may be rendered a mortal one." Richelieu smiled. The paroxysm of fury had subsided, and he was once more cold, and stern, and self-possessed. "We lose time," he said, "and I have yet to play the courtier. Are my robes ready?"