The surprise was complete, and we were caged as securely as rats in a trap. Condé looked at the blanched faces of the women, then at us, and then glanced from the window, while the knocking grew angrier and the voice louder. “Open in the King’s name!” Then he bent down, gravely this time, and kissed his wife again, and as she sank weeping into his arms, he said calmly to us: “Open!” But Coqueville hesitated, and the Prince had to command him twice before he sullenly drew the bolts, and, opening the door, stepped back to my side; and in a moment there was the jingling of spurs, the clash of scabbards, and the room was thronged with armed men, at the head of whom stood Achon, and by his side was the tall figure of Richelieu. Condé, his arm still round his wife’s waist, a little group of scared faces behind him, stood in the centre of the room, proud and dignified. I had moved back a pace from Coqueville, somewhat into the shadow. Now that the blow had fallen, I was dazed, bewildered; my mind seemed a blank. “Monseigneur!” and Achon made a slight gesture of his hand behind him, “you see, resistance is hopeless.” “None has been made,” answered Condé dryly. There was a little silence, and then Achon turned to Richelieu: “Their swords, monsieur.” Coqueville was the nearest. As Richelieu approached him, he said: “Monsieur! Your sword, in the King’s name.” “It came from a King, and it goes to a King, monsieur,” and Coqueville obeyed, handing his sword to Richelieu, who received it with a low bow. Then he glanced at me, a secret scorn in his look; but Achon’s voice cut in sharply: “His, too, monsieur.” Richelieu shrugged his shoulders, and called to a trooper. “Truchepot--take monsieur’s sword--my hands are full.” All eyes were upon me; the contempt in Richelieu’s voice was not to be mistaken. Achon looked on with a mocking smile on his lips. “Monsieur!” I began; but Condé’s voice stayed me: “Vibrac! Not a word, I command you--give up your sword.” I let it fall with a clash on the floor, and as the trooper stooped to recover it, acting on some secret signal two others ranged themselves on each side of me. “Come, monsieur! Let this farce end. Where are you going to take us?” It was Condé who spoke, and Achon answered him: “Back to the Rue Parisis, Monseigneur--and if your Highness will give me your faith not to escape, I have no wish to deprive you of your sword.” “I make no pledge--give no promise.” “Your Highness must then be treated as the others. Richelieu, you will receive Monseigneur’s sword.” Richelieu stepped forward, but Condé said coldly: “You mistake, monsieur; a Prince cannot surrender his sword to an unfrocked friar, and”--he looked at Achon--“still less to a priest.” Richelieu bit his lips with anger, but Achon smiled again, his cynical, mocking smile, and turned to me.