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Updated: June 1, 2025
Montignac's reckless-looking companion had been the gay gentleman going north, at whom I had looked from an inn shed. The other was the man who had afterwards chased me southward at the behest of the Duke of Guise. But he no longer wore on his hat the white cross of Lorraine, and the Vicomte de Berquin's apparel was no longer gay and spotless. The two had doubtless fallen on hard ways.
Both showed the marks of reverses and hard drinking. Barbemouche's sword was, manifestly, no longer in the pay of the Duke of Guise, but was ready to serve the first bidder. Barbemouche shrugged his shoulders at De Berquin's reproof, and led his three sorry-looking companions to a bench in front of the inn, where they searched their pockets for coin before venturing to cross the threshold.
It was not without surprise or without displeasure that, on the 8th of August, just as they had "made over to the Bishop of Paris, present and accepting" the prisoner confined in the Conciergerie, the members of the council-chamber observed the arrival of Captain Frederic, belonging to the archers of the king's guard, and bringing a letter from the king, who changed the venue in Berquin's case so as to decide it himself at his grand council; in consequence of which the prisoner would have to be handed over, not to the bishop, but to the king.
From the shrug of De Berquin's shoulders, I knew that he had gambled, and also that my argument had moved him. But another doubt darkened his face. "And if you do bring an unarmed person before me, how shall I know that it is La Tournoire?" said he. "He shall tell you so himself." "Excellent proof!"
A man went up to the Franciscan monk who had placed himself at Berquin's side in the procession, and had entreated him without getting from him anything but silence, and asked him, "Did Berquin say that he had erred?" "Yes, certainly," answered the monk, "and I doubt not but that his soul hath departed in peace."
I know the big fellow at the head." The voice was that of the foppish, cowardly rascal of De Berquin's band. I now saw that the three fellows left by Blaise at Maury were held as prisoners by the governor's troops. Poor Jacques, doubtless, thought to get his freedom or some reward for crying out our identity. "I shall wring your neck yet, lap-dog!" roared Blaise.
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