n
justice in France, I should certainly have gained. Two other summonses
were issued against me, and before I knew what was going on a warrant was
issued for my arrest. I was seized at eight o'clock in the morning, as I
was driving along the Rue St. Denis. The sergeant of police sat beside
me, a second got up beside the coachman, and a third stationed himself at
the back of the coach, and in this state we drove to Fort l'Eveque.

As soon as the police had handed me over to the gaoler, he informed me
that by payment of the fifty thousand francs, or by giving good bail, I
might instantly regain my freedom.

"For the moment," said I, "I can neither command money nor bail."

"Very good, then you will stay in prison."

The gaoler took me to a decent-looking room, and I told him I had only
been served with one writ.

"Very likely," answered he, "it often happens like that; but it is rather
difficult to prove."

"Bring me writing materials, and have a trusty messenger at my disposal."

I wrote to my counsel, my attorney, to Madame d'Urfe, and to all my
friends, including my brother, who was just married. The attorney called
immediately, but the barrister contented himself with writing to the
effect that as he had put in an appeal my seizure was illegal, and that
damages might be recovered. He ended by begging me to give him a free
hand, and to have patience for a few days.

Manon Baletti sent her brother with her diamond earrings. Madame du
Rumain dispatched her barrister--a man of rare honesty--to me, and wrote
a friendly note in which she said that if I wanted five hundred louis I
should have them to-morrow. My brother neither wrote nor came to see me.
As to dear Madame d'Urfe she sent to say that she would expect me at
dinner. I thought she had gone mad, as I could not think she was making
fun of me.

At eleven o'clock my room was full of people. Poor Baret had come
weeping, and offering me all his shop held. I was touched by the worthy
man's kindness. At last I was told that a lady in a coach wanted to see
me. I waited, but nobody came. In my impatience I called the turnkey, who
told me that, after questioning the clerk of the prison, she had gone
away again. From the description I was given I had no difficulty in
identifying the lady with Madame d'Urfe.

To find myself deprived of my liberty was a disagreeable shock to me. I
thought of The Leads, and though my present situation was not to be
compared with that