While Raimond V. and his guests were supping gaily, the company of soldiers seen by the watchman, about fifty men belonging to the regiment of Guitry, had arrived almost at the door of Maison-Forte.

The recorder Isnard, followed by his clerk, as usual, said to Captain Georges, who commanded the detachment:

“It would be prudent, captain, to try a summons before attacking by force, in order to take possession of the person of Raimond V. There are about fifty well-armed men in his lair behind good walls.”

“Eh! what matters the walls to me?”

“But, besides the walls, there is a bridge, and you see, captain, it is up.”

“Eh! what do I care for the bridge? If Raimond V. refuses to lower it—ah, well, zounds! my carabineers will assault the place; that happened more than once in the last war! If necessary, we will attach a petard to the door, but let it be understood, recorder, that, whatever happens, you are to follow us to make an official report.”

“Hum! hum!” grunted the man of law. “Without doubt, I and my clerk must assist you; I shall be able, even under that circumstance, to note the good conduct and zeal of the aforesaid clerk in charging him with this honourable mission.”

“But, Master Isnard, that is your office, and not mine!” said the unhappy clerk.

“Silence, my clerk, we are here before Maison-Forte. The moments are precious. Do you prepare to follow the captain and obey me!”

The company had, in fact, reached the end of the sycamore walk, which bordered the half-circle.

The bridge was up, and the windows opening on the interior court were brilliant with light, as the baron’s guests had departed but a little while.

“You see, captain, the bridge is up, and more, the moat is wide and deep, and full of water,” said the recorder.

Captain Georges carefully examined the entrances of the place; after a few moments of silence, he pulled his moustache on the left side violently,—a sure sign of his disappointment.

A sentinel, standing inside the court, seeing the glitter of arms in the moonlight, cried, in a loud voice:

“Who goes there? Answer, or I will fire!”

The recorder jumped back three steps, hid himself behind the captain, and replied, in a high voice:

“In the name of the king and the cardinal, I, Master Isnard, recorder of the admiralty of Toulon, command you to lower this bridge!”

“You will not depart?” said the voice. At the same time a light shone from one of the loopholes for guns which defended the entrance. It was easy to judge that the sentinel was blowing the match of his musket.

“Take care!” cried Isnard. “Your master will be held responsible for what you are going to do!”

This warning made the soldier reflect; he fired his musket in the air, at the same time crying the word of alarm in a stentorian voice.

“He has fired on the king’s soldiers!” cried the recorder, pale with anger and fright “It is an act of armed rebellion. I saw it. Clerk, make a note of that act!”

“No, recorder,” said the captain, “he has barked, but he has not desired to murder. I saw the light, too, and he fired in the air to give the alarm.”

In answer to the sentinel’s cries, several lights appeared above the walls; numerous precipitate steps, and a great clang of arms were heard in the court At last, Master Laramée, a helmet on his head and his breast armed with a cuirass, appeared at one of the embrasures of the gate.

“In the name of God, what do you want?” cried he. “Is this the time, pray, to come here and trouble good people who are keeping Christmas?”

“We have an order from the king which we come to put into execution,” said the recorder, “and I—”

“I have some wine left yet in my glass, recorder; good evening, I am going to empty it,” said Laramée, “only, remember the bulls, and know that a musket-ball reaches farther than their horns. So, now, good-night, recorder!” “Think well on what you are going to do, insolent scoundrel,” said Captain Georges; “you are not dealing this time with a wet hen of a recorder, but with a fight-ing-cock, who has a hard beak and sharp spurs, I warn you.”

“The fact is, Master Isnard,” said the clerk, humbly, to the recorder, “we are to this soldier what a pumpkin is to an artillery ball.”

The recorder, already very much offended by the captain’s comparison, rudely repulsed the clerk, and, addressing Laramée with great importance, said:

“You have this time, at your door, the right and the power, the hand and the sword of justice. So, majordomo, I order you to open and to lower the bridge.”

A well-known voice interrupted the recorder; it was that of Raimond V., who had been informed of the arrival of the captain. Escorted by Laramée, who carried a torch, the old gentleman appeared erect upon the little platform that formed the entablature of the gate masked by the drawbridge.

The fluctuating light of the torch threw red reflections on the group of soldiers, and shone upon their steel collars and iron head-pieces; half of the scene being in the shade or lighted by the rays of the moon.

Raimond V. wore his holiday attire, richly braided with gold, and his white hair fell over his lace collar. Nothing was more dignified, more imposing or manly than his attitude.

“What do you want?” said he, in a sonorous voice. Master Isnard repeated the formula of his speech, and concluded by declaring that Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez, was arrested, and would be conducted under a safe escort to the prison of the provost of Marseilles, for the crime of rebellion against the orders of the king.

The baron listened to ............