Vaux, with a careless sweep of his hand, knocked down his house of cards, and as he gathered the pack together, looked at us, saying: “Shall we take hands, messieurs, to while away the time?” “With pleasure,” replied de Bresy, “but three is an unlucky number. Comminges shall make the fourth.” He turned to the door as if to call out, and Vaux bit his lip with anger as he just flashed a glance at me. I was, however, in time. “It is needless, de Bresy. I cannot touch a card to-day. I know not what it is, but I have no humor for it.” “Oh, come! But a few rounds,” said de Bresy, as he turned to me, picked up some cards, and began shuffling them in his hand. While he spoke Vaux had made a movement toward the window. He was behind de Bresy now, and his poniard gleamed in his hand. I held him with a look, and de Bresy went on, all unknowing of the danger behind him. “’Tis a curious pack this, Vibrac. Do you see the illuminations on the backs of the cards?” “Yes. I noticed them before. They are Viterbo cards, I think.” Vaux had made a step nearer his man. His eyes were blazing. I could not have stayed him if I would; but at that moment there was a noise at the door, and the page had just time to turn to his window like a flash, when Comminges entered the room. “Monsieur!” he said bluntly, addressing de Bresy, “here is a letter for you.” “Thanks, Comminges,” and as de Bresy took the letter I glanced at the soldierly figure of the lieutenant. It was evident that he was one who had risen from the ranks, and twenty years of war had left their scars on his rough features. There he stood, the type of the soldier who has become a machine, whose life is regulated by his orders, and as I took in the square jaw, the firm, resolute features, and keen, deep-set eyes, I thought to myself that it would be a far cry to the gates of the prison even if de Bresy were disposed of. And as my mind ran on thus, a low exclamation burst from de Bresy. He crumpled the paper in his hand, saying as he did so: “There is no answer, Comminges.” The subaltern bowed stiffly and withdrew. “It is infamous,” said de Bresy as if to himself, and then he caught my eager look and Vaux’s glance--the page had turned from the window and approached us when Comminges spoke. His hand, however, no longer held a poniard. “There is nothing new against the Prince?” I asked, and de Bresy laughed uneasily. “Monsieur of Arles writes to me to prepare the _cachot_ for our prisoner to-night.” “The _cachot_!” “Yes. ’Tis a dog’s business, and but that my honor is pledged, I would see it to the winds--a Prince of the blood in the _cachot_!” A sudden thought struck me as he spoke. It was one of those inspirations that come in moments of suspense. “But you surely have no _cachots_ here?” “As good as in the Châtelet, monsieur.” “I saw the Vidame there,” I said, “and know the Châtelet. I doubt if what you have here is anything like that.”