“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.