“Good-night, de Lorgnac!” We returned his greeting and, moving quickly along the corridor, gained the entrance hall, where we found that Sancerre’s words were true, for Richelieu was there, warming himself at the fire, and, ranged near the door, stood at least a dozen of his carabiniers. We looked at one another in surprise, and Richelieu stopped rubbing his hands together at the blaze in the grate; then, putting on his plumed hat, that lay on a chair beside him, he came toward us. As he approached, Sancerre addressed him: “You here, monsieur! I had thought your duties were with the Queen-Mother.” “My duties are where my orders carry me,” sneered Richelieu, “and, at the moment, these duties are painful--to others.” Then turning to us, he said, in a loud voice: “Messieurs de Marcilly and de Vibrac, I arrest you in the King’s name! Your swords, please, gentlemen!” “_Morbleu!_” exclaimed Cipierre. “This is too much, monsieur! I demand your authority!” Richelieu shrugged his shoulders. “It is at the door, Monsieur le Vicomte,” and he pointed to his troopers where they stood, grim and motionless. There was a veiled triumph in his voice, a studied insolence in his manner, that made our blood boil, and Cipierre, ever hasty, was roused at once. “You will do this at your peril, sir,” he began, but Sancerre stayed him, and, turning toward Richelieu, looked him steadily in the face, as he asked: “Monsieur, do I understand you to say you have the orders of the King--the King, mind you--for your action?” But Richelieu was not to be browbeaten. He cocked his hat fiercely on the side of his head, and answered with a haughtiness equal to that of the Count: “Monsieur de Sancerre! It is sufficient for me that I have my orders. It is my duty to see them carried out, and yours, monsieur, not to hinder me.” “Precisely! Provided you have orders.” “Monsieur!” “Come, monsieur! There must be some mistake. One does not arrest gentlemen who have but a moment ago received the King’s pardon. If you have the King’s warrant, produce it, and the matter is ended.” Sancerre’s words had their effect on the man. He had started perceptibly at the mention of the King’s pardon, and for a moment he was shaken. But Richelieu was a hardy villain, and steeled himself. He turned insolently from Sancerre, saying: “I cannot stand here talking all night. Messieurs, your swords--or must I use force?” But here Cipierre’s patience was exhausted. “Stay!” he cried. “I give you my word, monsieur, that if you do not produce your authority, and if you arrest these gentlemen by force without producing it, that I, Philibert de Marcilly, Captain of Orleans and Colonel-General of Cavalry, will break you like a reed. There is an old story, monsieur, of an earthen vessel and a metal pot going together down stream--you have worn the black robe, and ought to know the fable--and I take it you are wise enough to apply it. Come, sir, no more fencing; your authority.”