On his return home the coadjutor was informed that a young man had come

in after his departure and was waiting for him; he started with delight

when, on demanding the name of this young man, he learned that it was

Louvières. He hastened to his cabinet. Broussel’s son was there, still

furious, and still bearing bloody marks of his struggle with the king’s

officers. The only precaution he had taken in coming to the

archbishopric was to leave his arquebuse in the hands of a friend.

The coadjutor went to him and held out his hand. The young man gazed at

him as if he would have read the secret of his heart.

“My dear Monsieur Louvières,” said the coadjutor, “believe me, I am

truly concerned for the misfortune which has happened to you.”

“Is that true, and do you speak seriously?” asked Louvières.

“From the depth of my heart,” said Gondy.

“In that case, my lord, the time for words has passed and the hour for

action is at hand; my lord, in three days, if you wish it, my father

will be out of prison and in six months you may be cardinal.”

The coadjutor started.

“Oh! let us speak frankly,” continued Louvières, “and act in a

straightforward manner. Thirty thousand crowns in alms is not given, as

you have done for the last six months, out of pure Christian charity;

that would be too grand. You are ambitious—it is natural; you are a man

of genius and you know your worth. As for me, I hate the court and have

but one desire at this moment—vengeance. Give us the clergy and the

people, of whom you can dispose, and I will bring you the citizens and

the parliament; with these four elements Paris is ours in a week; and

believe me, monsieur coadjutor, the court will give from fear what it

will not give from good-will.”

It was now the coadjutor’s turn to fix his piercing eyes on Louvières.

“But, Monsieur Louvières, are you aware that it is simply civil war you

are proposing to me?”

“You have been preparing long enough, my lord, for it to be welcome to

you now.”

“Never mind,” said the coadjutor; “you must be well aware that this

requires reflection.”

“And how many hours of reflection do you ask?”

“Twelve hours, sir; is it too long?”

“It is now noon; at midnight I will be at your house.”

“If I should not be in, wait for me.”

“Good! at midnight, my lord.”

“At midnight, my dear Monsieur Louvières.”

When once more alone Gondy sent to summon all the curates with whom he

had any connection to his house. Two hours later, thirty officiating

ministers from the most populous, and consequently the most disturbed

parishes of Paris had assembled there. Gondy related to them the

insults he had received at the Palais Royal and retailed the jests of

Beautin, the Count de Villeroy and Maréchal de la Meilleraie. The

curates asked him what was to be done.

“Simply this,” said the coadjutor. “You are the directors of all

consciences. Well, undermine in them the miserable prejudice of respect

and fear of kings; teach your flocks that the queen is a tyrant; and

repeat often and loudly, so that all may know it, that the misfortunes

of France are caused by Mazarin, her lover and her destroyer; begin

this work to-day, this instant even, and in three days I shall expect

the result. For the rest, if any one of you have further or better

counsel to expound, I will listen to him with the greatest pleasure.”

Three curates remained—those of St. Merri, St. Sulpice and St.

Eustache. The others withdrew.

“You think, then, that you can help me more efficaciously than your

brothers?” said Gondy.

“We hope so,” answered the curates.

“Let us hear. Monsieur de St. Merri, you begin.”

“My lord, I have in my parish a man who might be of the greatest use to

you.”

“Who and what is this man?”

“A shopkeeper in the Rue des Lombards, who has great influence upon the

commerce of his quarter.”

“What is his name?”

“He is named Planchet, who himself also caused a rising about six weeks

ago; but as he was searched for after this _émeute_ he disappeared.”

“And can you find him?”

“I hope so. I think he has not been arrested, and as I am his wife’s

confessor, if _she_ knows where he is I shall know it too.”

“Very well, sir, find this man, and when you have found him bring him

to me.”

“We will be with you at six o’clock, my lord.”

“Go, my dear curate, and may God assist you!”

“And you, sir?” continued Gondy, turning to the curate of St. Sulpice.

“I, my lord,” said the latter, “I know a man who has rendered great

services to a very popular prince and who would make an excellent

leader of revolt. Him I can place at your disposal; it is Count de

Rochefort.”

“I know him also, but unfortunately he is not in Paris.”

“My lord, he has been for three days at the Rue Cassette.”

“And wherefore has he not been to see me?”

“He was told—my lord will pardon me——”

“Certainly, speak.”

“That your lordship was about to treat with the court.”

Gondy bit his lips.

“They are mistaken; bring him here at eight o’clock, sir, and may

Heaven bless you as I bless you!”

“And now ’tis your turn,” said the coadjutor, turning to the last that

remained; “have you anything as good to offer me as the two gentlemen

who have left us?”

“Better, my lord.”

“_Diable!_ think what a solemn engagement you are making; one has

offered a wealthy shopkeeper, the other a count; you are going, then,

to offer a prince, are you?”

“I offer you a beggar, my lord.”

“Ah! ah!” said Gondy, reflecting, “you are right, sir; some one who

could raise the legion of paupers who choke up the crossings of Paris;

some one who would know how to cry aloud to them, that all France might

hear it, that it is Mazarin who has reduced them to poverty.”

“Exactly your man.”

“Bravo! and the man?”

“A plain and simple beggar, as I have said, my lord, who asks for alms,

as he gives holy water; a practice he has carried on for six years on

the steps of St. Eustache.”

“And you say that he has a great influence over his compeers?”

“Are you aware, my lord, that mendacity is an organized body, a kind of

association of those who have nothing against those who have

everything; an association in which every one takes his share; one that

elects a leader?”

“Yes, I have heard it said,” replied the coadjutor.

“Well, the man whom I offer you is a general syndic.”

“And what do you know of him?”

“Nothing, my lord, except that he is tormented with remorse.”

“What makes you think so?”

“On the twenty-eighth of every month he makes me say a mass for the

repose of the soul of one who died a violent death; yesterday I said

this mass again.”

“And his name?”

“Maillard; but I do not think it is his right one.”

“And think you that we should find him at this hour at his post?”

“Certainly.”

“Let us go and see your beggar, sir, and if he is such as you describe

him, you are right—it will be you who have discovered the true

treasure.”

Gondy dressed himself as an officer, put on a felt cap with a red

feather, hung on a long sword, buckled spurs to his boots, wrapped

himself in an ample cloak and followed the curate.

The coadjutor and his companion passed through all the streets lying

between the archbishopric and the St. Eustache Church, watching

carefully to ascertain the popular feeling. The people were in an

excited mood, but, like a swarm of frightened bees, seemed not to know

at what point to concentrate; and it was very evident that if leaders

of the people were not provided all this agitation would pass off in

idle buzzing.

On arriving at the Rue des Prouvaires, the curate pointed toward the

square before the church.

“Stop!” he said, “there he is at his post.”

Gondy looked at the spot indicated and perceived a beggar seated in a

chair and leaning against one of the moldings; a little basin was near

him and he held a holy water brush in his hand.

“Is it by permission that he remains there?” asked Gondy.

“No, my lord; these places are bought. I believe this man paid his

predecessor a hundred pistoles for his.”

“The rascal is rich, then?”

“Some of those men sometimes die worth twenty thousand and twenty-five

and thirty thousand francs and sometimes more.”

“Hum!” said Gondy, laughing; “I was not aware my alms were so well

invested.”

In the meantime they were advancing toward the square, and the moment

the coadjutor and the curate put their feet on the first church step

the mendicant arose and proffered his brush.

He was a man between sixty-six and sixty-eight years of age, little,

rather stout, with gray hair and light eyes. His countenance denoted

the struggle between two opposite principles—a wicked nature, subdued

by determination, perhaps by repentance.

He started on seeing the cavalier with the curate. The latter and the

coadjutor touched the brush with the tips of their fingers and made the

sign of the cross; the coadjutor threw a piece of money into the hat,

which was on the ground.

“Maillard,” began the curate, “this gentleman and I have come to talk

with you a little.”

“With me!” said the mendicant; “it is a great honor for a poor

distributor of holy water.”

There was an ironical tone in his voice which he could not quite

disguise and which astonished the coadjutor.

“Yes,” continued the curate, apparently accustomed to this tone, “yes,

we wish to know your opinion of the events of to-day and what you have

heard said by people going in and out of the church.”

The mendicant shook his head.

“These are melancholy doings, your reverence, which always fall again

upon the poor. As to what is said, everybody is discontented, everybody

complains, but ‘everybody’ means ‘nobody.’”

“Explain yourself, my good friend,” said the coadjutor.

“I mean that all these cries, all these complaints, these curses,

produce nothing but storms and flashes and that is all; but the

lightning will not strike until there is a hand to guide it.”

“My friend,” said Gondy, “you seem to be a clever and a thoughtful man;

are you disposed to take a part in a little civil war, should we have

one, and put at the command of the leader, should we find one, your

personal influence and the influence you have acquired over your

comrades?”

“Yes, sir, provided this war were approved of by the church and would

advance the end I wish to attain—I mean, the remission of my sins.”

“The war will not only be approved of, but directed by the church. As

for the remission of your sins, we have the archbishop of Paris, who

has the very greatest power at the court of Rome, and even the

coadjutor, who possesses some plenary indulgences; we will recommend

you to him.”

“Consider, Maillard,” said the curate, “that I have recommended you to

this gentleman, who is a powerful lord, and that I have made myself

responsible for you.”

“I know, monsieur le curé,” said the beggar, “that you have always been

very kind to me, and therefore I, in my turn, will be serviceable to

you.”

“And do you think your power as great with the fraternity as monsieur

le curé told me it was just now?”

“I think they have some esteem for me,” said the mendicant with pride,

“and that not only will they obey me, but wherever I go they will

follow me.”

“And could you count on fifty resolute men, good, unemployed, but

active souls, brawlers, capable of bringing down the walls of the

Palais Royal by crying, ‘Down with Mazarin,’ as fell those at Jericho?”

“I think,” said the beggar, “I can undertake things more difficult and

more important than that.”

“Ah, ah,” said Gondy, “you will undertake, then, some night, to throw

up some ten barricades?”

“I will undertake to throw up fifty, and when the day comes, to defend

them.”

“I’faith!” exclaimed Gondy, “you speak with a certainty that gives me

pleasure; and since monsieur le curé can answer for you——”

“I answer for him,” said the curate.

“Here is a bag containing five hundred pistoles in gold; make all your

arrangements, and tell me where I shall be able to find you this

evening at ten o’clock.”

“It must be on some elevated place, whence a given signal may be seen

in every part of Paris.”

“Shall I give you a line for the vicar of St. Jacques de la Boucherie?

he will let you into the rooms in his tower,” said the curate.

“Capital,” answered the mendicant.

“Then,” said the coadjutor, “this evening, at ten o’clock, and if I am

pleased with you another bag of five hundred pistoles will be at your

disposal.”

The eyes of the mendicant dashed with cupidity, but he quickly

suppressed his emotion.

“This evening, sir,” he replied, “all will be ready.”

Chapter XLVI.

The Tower of St. Jacques de la Boucherie.

At a quarter to six o’clock, Monsieur de Gondy, having finished his

business, returned to the archiepiscopal palace.

At six o’clock the curate of St. Merri was announced.

The coadjutor glanced rapidly behind and saw that he was followed by

another man. The curate then entered, followed by Planchet.

“Your holiness,” said the curate, “here is the person of whom I had the

honor to speak to you.”

Planchet saluted in the manner of one accustomed to fine houses.

“And you are disposed to serve the cause of the people?” asked Gondy.

“Most undoubtedly,” said Planchet. “I am a Frondist from my heart. You

see in me, such as I am, a person sentenced to be hung.”

“And on what account?”

“I rescued from the hands of Mazarin’s police a noble lord whom they

were conducting back to the Bastile, where he had been for five years.”

“Will you name him?”

“Oh, you know him well, my lord—it is Count de Rochefort.”

“Ah! really, yes,” said the coadjutor, “I have heard this affair

mentioned. You raised the whole district, so they told me!”

“Very nearly,” replied Planchet, with a self-satisfied air.

“And your business is——”

“That of a confectioner, in the Rue des Lombards.”

“Explain to me how it happens that, following so peaceful a business,

you had such warlike inclinations.”

“Why does my lord, belonging to the church, now receive me in the dress

of an officer, with a sword at his side and spurs to his boots?”

“Not badly answered, i’faith,” said Gondy, laughing; “but I have, you

must know, always had, in spite of my bands, warlike inclinations.”

“Well, my lord, before I became a confectioner I myself was three years

sergeant in the Piedmontese regiment, and before I became sergeant I

was for eighteen months the servant of Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“The lieutenant of musketeers?” asked Gondy.

“Himself, my lord.”

“But he is said to be a furious Mazarinist.”

“Phew!” whistled Planchet.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing, my lord; Monsieur d’Artagnan belongs to the service; Monsieur

d’Artagnan makes it his business to defend the cardinal, who pays him,

as much as we make it ours, we citizens, to attack him, whom he robs.”

“You are an intelligent fellow, my friend; can we count upon you?”

“You may count upon me, my lord, provided you want to make a complete

upheaval of the city.”

“’Tis that exactly. How many men, think you, you could collect together

to-night?”

“Two hundred muskets and five hundred halberds.”

“Let there be only one man in every district who can do as much and by

to-morrow we shall have quite a powerful army. Are you disposed to obey

Count de Rochefort?”

“I would follow him to hell, and that is saying not a little, as I

believe him entirely capable of the descent.”

“Bravo!”

“By what sign to-morrow shall we be able to distinguish friends from

foes?”

“Every Frondist must put a knot of straw in his hat.”

“Good! Give the watchword.”

“Do you want money?”

“Money never comes amiss at any time, my lord; if one has it not, one

must do without it; with it, matters go on much better and more

rapidly.”

Gondy went to a box and drew forth a bag.

“Here are five hundred pistoles,” he said; “and if the action goes off

well you may reckon upon a similar sum to-morrow.”

“I will give a faithful account of the sum to your lordship,” said

Planchet, putting the bag under his arm.

“That is right; I recommend the cardinal to your attention.”

“Make your mind easy, he is in good hands.”

Planchet went out, the curate remaining for a moment.

“Are you satisfied, my lord?” he asked.

“Yes; he appears to be a resolute fellow.”

“Well, he will do more than he has promised.”

“He will do wonders then.”

The curate rejoined Planchet, who was waiting for him on the stairs.

Ten minutes later the curate of St. Sulpice was announced. As soon as

the door of Gondy’s study was opened a man rushed in. It was the Count

de Rochefort.

“’Tis you, then, my dear count,” cried Gondy, offering his hand.

“You have made up your mind at last, my lord?” said Rochefort.

“It has been made up a long time,” said Gondy.

“Let us say no more on the subject; you tell me so, I believe you.

Well, we are going to give a ball to Mazarin.”

“I hope so.”

“And when will the dance begin?”

“The invitations are given for this evening,” said the coadjutor, “but

the violins will not begin to play until to-morrow morning.”

“You may reckon upon me and upon fifty soldiers which the Chevalier

d’Humières has promised me whenever I need them.”

“Upon fifty soldiers?”

“Yes, he is making recruits and he will lend them to me; if any are

missing when the _fête_ is over, I shall replace them.”

“Good, my dear Rochefort; but that is not all. What have you done with

Monsieur de Beaufort?”

“He is in Vendôme, where he will wait until I write to him to return to

Paris.”

“Write to him; now’s the time.”

“You are sure of your enterprise?”

“Yes, but he must make haste; for hardly will the people of Paris have

revolted before we shall have a score of princes begging to lead them.

If he defers he will find the place of honor taken.”

“Shall I send word to him as coming from you?”

“Yes certainly.”

“Shall I tell him that he can count on you?”

“To the end.”

“And you will leave the command to him?”

“Of the war, yes, but in politics——”

“You must know it is not his element.”

“He must leave me to negotiate for my cardinal’s hat in my own

fashion.”

“You care about it, then, so much?”

“Since they force me to wear a hat of a form which does not become me,”

said Gondy, “I wish at least that the hat should be red.”

“One must not dispute matters of taste and colors,” said Rochefort,

laughing. “I answer for his consent.”

“How soon can he be here?”

“In five days.”

“Let him come and he will find a change, I will answer for it.”

“Therefore, go and collect your fifty men and hold yourself in

readiness.”

“For what?”

“For everything.”

“Is there any signal for the general rally?”

“A knot of straw in the hat.”

“Very good. Adieu, my lord.”

“Adieu, my dear Rochefort.”

“Ah, Monsieur Mazarin, Monsieur Mazarin,” said Rochefort, leading off

his curate, who had not found an opportunity of uttering a single word

during the foregoing dialogue, “you will see whether I am too old to be

a man of action.”

It was half-past nine o’clock and the coadjutor required half an hour

to go from the archbishop’s palace to the tower of St. Jacques de la

Boucherie. He remarked that a light was burning in one of the highest

windows of the tower. “Good,” said he, “our syndic is at his post.”

He knocked and the door was opened. The vicar himself awaited him,

conducted him to the top of the tower, and when there pointed to a

little door, placed the light which he had brought with him in a corner

of the wall, that the coadjutor might be able to find it on his return,

and went down again. Although the key was in the door the coadjutor

knocked.

“Come in,” said a voice which he recognized as that of the mendicant,

whom he found lying on a kind of truckle bed. He rose on the entrance

of the coadjutor, and at that moment ten o’clock struck.

“Well,” said Gondy, “have you kept your word with me?”

“Not exactly,” replied the mendicant.

“How is that?”

“You asked me for five hundred men, did you not? Well, I have ten

thousand for you.”

“You are not boasting?”

“Do you wish for a proof?”

“Yes.”

There were three candles alight, each of which burnt before a window,

one looking upon the city, the other upon the Palais Royal, and a third

upon the Rue Saint Denis.

The man went silently to each of the candles and blew them out one

after the other.

“What are you doing?” asked the coadjutor.

“I have given the signal.”

“For what?”

“For the barricades. When you leave this you will behold my men at

work. Only take care you do not break your legs in stumbling over some

chain or your neck by falling in a hole.”

“Good! there is your money, the same sum as that you have received

already. Now remember that you are a general and do not go and drink.”

“For twenty years I have tasted nothing but water.”

The man took the bag from the hands of the coadjutor, who heard the

sound of his fingers counting and handling the gold pieces.

“Ah! ah!” said the coadjutor, “you are avaricious, my good fellow.”

The mendicant sighed and threw down the bag.

“Must I always be the same?” said he, “and shall I never succeed in

overcoming the old leaven? Oh, misery, oh, vanity!”

“You take it, however.”

“Yes, but I make hereby a vow in your presence, to employ all that

remains to me in pious works.”

His face was pale and drawn, like that of a man who had just undergone

some inward struggle.

“Singular man!” muttered Gondy, taking his hat to go away; but on

turning around he saw the beggar between him and the door. His first

idea was that this man intended to do him some harm, but on the

contrary he saw him fall on his knees before him with his hands

clasped.

“Your blessing, your holiness, before you go, I beseech you!” he cried.

“Your holiness!” said Gondy; “my friend, you take me for some one

else.”

“No, your holiness, I take you for what you are, that is to say, the

coadjutor; I recognized you at the first glance.”

Gondy smiled. “And you want my blessing?” he said.

“Yes, I have need of it.”

The mendicant uttered these words in a tone of such humility, such

earnest repentance, that Gondy placed his hand upon him and gave him

his benediction with all the unction of which he was capable.

“Now,” said Gondy, “there is a communion between us. I have blessed you

and you are sacred to me. Come, have you committed some crime, pursued

by human justice, from which I can protect you?”

The beggar shook his head. “The crime which I have committed, my lord,

has no call upon human justice, and you can only deliver me from it by

blessing me frequently, as you have just done.”

“Come, be candid,” said the coadjutor, “you have not all your life

followed the trade which you do now?”

“No, my lord. I have pursued it for six years only.”

“And previously, where were you?”

“In the Bastile.”

“And before you went to the Bastile?”

“I will tell you, my lord, on the day when you are willing to hear my

confession.”

“Good! At whatsoever hour of the day or night you may present yourself,

remember that I shall be ready to give you absolution.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said the mendicant in a hoarse voice. “But I am

not yet ready to receive it.”

“Very well. Adieu.”

“Adieu, your holiness,” said the mendicant, opening the door and

bending low before the prelate.

Chapter XLVII.

The Riot.

It was about eleven o’clock at night. Gondy had not walked a hundred

steps ere he perceived the strange change which had been made in the

streets of Paris.

The whole city seemed peopled with fantastic beings; silent shadows

were seen unpaving the streets and others dragging and upsetting great

wagons, whilst others again dug ditches large enough to ingulf whole

regiments of horsemen. These active beings flitted here and there like

so many demons completing some unknown labor; these were the beggars of

the Court of Miracles—the agents of the giver of holy water in the

Square of Saint Eustache, preparing barricades for the morrow.

Gondy gazed on these deeds of darkness, on these nocturnal laborers,

with a kind of fear; he asked himself, if, after having called forth

these foul creatures from their dens, he should have the power of

making them retire again. He felt almost inclined to cross himself when

one of these beings happened to approach him. He reached the Rue Saint

Honoré and went up it toward the Rue de la Ferronnerie; there the

aspect changed; here it was the tradesmen who were running from shop to

shop; their doors seemed closed like their shutters, but they were only

pushed to in such a manner as to open and allow the men, who seemed

fearful of showing what they carried, to enter, closing immediately.

These men were shopkeepers, who had arms to lend to those who had none.

One individual went from door to door, bending under the weight of

swords, guns, muskets and every kind of weapon, which he deposited as

fast as he could. By the light of a lantern the coadjutor recognized

Planchet.

The coadjutor proceeded onward to the quay by way of the Rue de la

Monnaie; there he found groups of bourgeois clad in black cloaks or

gray, according as they belonged to the upper or lower bourgeoisie.

They were standing motionless, while single men passed from one group

to another. All these cloaks, gray or black, were raised behind by the

point of a sword, or before by the barrel of an arquebuse or a musket.

On reaching the Pont Neuf the coadjutor found it strictly guarded and a

man approached him.

“Who are you?” asked the man. “I do not know you for one of us.”

“Then it is because you do not know your friends, my dear Monsieur

Louvières,” said the coadjutor, raising his hat.

Louvières recognized him and bowed.

Gondy continued his way and went as far as the Tour de Nesle. There he

saw a lengthy chain of people gliding under the walls. They might be

said to be a procession of ghosts, for they were all wrapped in white

cloaks. When they reached a certain spot these men appeared to be

annihilated, one after the other, as if the earth had opened under

their feet. Gondy, edged into a corner, saw them vanish from the first

until the last but one. The last raised his eyes, to ascertain,

doubtless, that neither his companions nor himself had been watched,

and, in spite of the darkness, he perceived Gondy. He walked straight

up to him and placed a pistol to his throat.

“Halloo! Monsieur de Rochefort,” said Gondy, laughing, “are you a boy

to play with firearms?”

Rochefort recognized the voice.

“Ah, it is you, my lord!” said he.

“The very same. What people are you leading thus into the bowels of the

earth?”

“My fifty recruits from the Chevalier d’Humières, who are destined to

enter the light cavalry and who have only received as yet for their

equipment their white cloaks.”

“And where are you going?”

“To the house of one of my friends, a sculptor, only we enter by the

trap through which he lets down his marble.”

“Very good,” said Gondy, shaking Rochefort by the hand, who descended

in his turn and closed the trap after him.

It was now one o’clock in the morning and the coadjutor returned home.

He opened a window and leaned out to listen. A strange,

incomprehensible, unearthly sound seemed to pervade the whole city; one

felt that something unusual and terrible was happening in all the

streets, now dark as ocean’s most unfathomable caves. From time to time

a dull sound was heard, like that of a rising tempest or a billow of

the sea; but nothing clear, nothing distinct, nothing intelligible; it

was like those mysterious subterraneous noises that precede an

earthquake.

The work of revolt continued the whole night thus. The next morning, on

awaking, Paris seemed to be startled at her own appearance. It was like

a besieged town. Armed men, shouldering muskets, watched over the

barricades with menacing looks; words of command, patrols, arrests,

executions, even, were encountered at every step. Those bearing plumed

hats and gold swords were stopped and made to cry, “Long live

Broussel!” “Down with Mazarin!” and whoever refused to comply with this

ceremony was hooted at, spat upon and even beaten. They had not yet

begun to slay, but it was well felt that the inclination to do so was

not wanting.

The barricades had been pushed as far as the Palais Royal. From the Rue

de Bons Enfants to that of the Ferronnerie, from the Rue Saint

Thomas-du-Louvre to the Pont Neuf, from the Rue Richelieu to the Porte

Saint Honoré, there were more than ten thousand armed men; those who

were at the front hurled defiance at the impassive sentinels of the

regiment of guards posted around the Palais Royal, the gates of which

were closed behind them, a precaution which made their situation

precarious. Among these thousands moved, in bands numbering from one

hundred to two hundred, pale and haggard men, clothed in rags, who bore

a sort of standard on which was inscribed these words: “BEHOLD THE

MISERY OF THE PEOPLE!” Wherever these men passed, frenzied cries were

heard; and there were so many of these bands that the cries were to be

heard in all directions.

The astonishment of Mazarin and of Anne of Austria was great when it

was announced to them that the city, which the previous evening they

had left entirely tranquil, had awakened to such feverish commotion;

nor would either the one or the other believe the reports that were

brought to them, declaring they would rather rely on the evidence of

their own eyes and ears. Then a window was opened and when they saw and

heard they were convinced.

Mazarin shrugged his shoulders and pretended to despise the populace;

but he turned visibly pale and ran to his closet, trembling all over,

locked up his gold and jewels in his caskets and put his finest

diamonds on his fingers. As for the queen, furious, and left to her own

guidance, she went for the Maréchal de la Meilleraie and desired him to

take as many men as he pleased and to go and see what was the meaning

of this pleasantry.

The marshal was ordinarily very adventurous and was wont to hesitate at

nothing; and he had that lofty contempt for the populace which army

officers usually profess. He took a hundred and fifty men and attempted

to go out by the Pont du Louvre, but there he met Rochefort and his

fifty horsemen, attended by more than five hundred men. The marshal

made no attempt to force that barrier and returned up the quay. But at

Pont Neuf he found Louvières and his bourgeois. This time the marshal

charged, but he was welcomed by musket shots, while stones fell like

hail from all the windows. He left there three men.

He beat a retreat toward the market, but there he met Planchet with his

halberdiers; their halberds were leveled at him threateningly. He

attempted to ride over those gray cloaks, but the gray cloaks held

their ground and the marshal retired toward the Rue Saint Honoré,

leaving four of his guards dead on the field of battle.

The marshal then entered the Rue Saint Honoré, but there he was opposed

by the barricades of the mendicant of Saint Eustache. They were

guarded, not only by armed men, but even by women and children. Master

Friquet, the owner of a pistol and of a sword which Louvières had given

him, had organized a company of rogues like himself and was making a

tremendous racket.

The marshal thought this barrier not so well fortified as the others

and determined to break through it. He dismounted twenty men to make a

breach in the barricade, whilst he and others, remaining on their

horses, were to protect the assailants. The twenty men marched straight

toward the barrier, but from behind the beams, from among the

wagon-wheels and from the heights of the rocks a terrible fusillade

burst forth and at the same time Planchet’s halberdiers appeared at the

corner of the Cemetery of the Innocents, and Louvières’s bourgeois at

the corner of the Rue de la Monnaie.

The Maréchal de la Meilleraie was caught between two fires, but he was

brave and made up his mind to die where he was. He returned blow for

blow and cries of pain began to be heard in the crowd. The guards, more

skillful, did greater execution; but the bourgeois, more numerous,

overwhelmed them with a veritable hurricane of iron. Men fell around

him as they had fallen at Rocroy or at Lerida. Fontrailles, his

aide-de-camp, had an arm broken; his horse had received a bullet in his

neck and he had difficulty in controlling him, maddened by pain. In

short, he had reached that supreme moment when the bravest feel a

shudder in their veins, when suddenly, in the direction of the Rue de

l’Arbre-Sec, the crowd opened, crying: “Long live the coadjutor!” and

Gondy, in surplice and cloak, appeared, moving tranquilly in the midst

of the fusillade and bestowing his benedictions to the right and left,

as undisturbed as if he were leading a procession of the _Fête Dieu_.

All fell to their knees. The marshal recognized him and hastened to

meet him.

“Get me out of this, in Heaven’s name!” he said, “or I shall leave my

carcass here and those of all my men.”

A great tumult arose, in the midst of which even the noise of thunder

could not have been heard. Gondy raised his hand and demanded silence.

All were still.

“My children,” he said, “this is the Maréchal de la Meilleraie, as to

whose intentions you have been deceived and who pledges himself, on

returning to the Louvre, to demand of the queen, in your name, our

Broussel’s release. You pledge yourself to that, marshal?” added Gondy,

turning to La Meilleraie.

“_Morbleu!_” cried the latter, “I should say that I do pledge myself to

it! I had no hope of getting off so easily.”

“He gives you his word of honor,” said Gondy.

The marshal raised his hand in token of assent.

“Long live the coadjutor!” cried the crowd. Some voices even added:

“Long live the marshal!” But all took up the cry in chorus: “Down with

Mazarin!”

The crowd gave place, the barricade was opened, and the marshal, with

the remnant of his company, retreated, preceded by Friquet and his

bandits, some of them making a presence of beating drums and others

imitating the sound of the trumpet. It was almost a triumphal

procession; only, behind the guards the barricades were closed again.

The marshal bit his fingers.

In the meantime, as we have said, Mazarin was in his closet, putting

his affairs in order. He called for D’Artagnan, but in the midst of

such tumult he little expected to see him, D’Artagnan not being on

service. In about ten minutes D’Artagnan appeared at the door, followed

by the inseparable Porthos.

“Ah, come in, come in, Monsieur d’Artagnan!” cried the cardinal, “and

welcome your friend too. But what is going on in this accursed Paris?”

“What is going on, my lord? nothing good,” replied D’Artagnan, shaking

his head. “The town is in open revolt, and just now, as I was crossing

the Rue Montorgueil with Monsieur du Vallon, who is here, and is your

humble servant, they wanted in spite of my uniform, or perhaps because

of my uniform, to make us cry ‘Long live Broussel!’ and must I tell

you, my lord what they wished us to cry as well?”

“Speak, speak.”

“‘Down with Mazarin!’ I’faith, the treasonable word is out.”

Mazarin smiled, but became very pale.

“And you did cry?” he asked.

“I’faith, no,” said D’Artagnan; “I was not in voice; Monsieur du Vallon

has a cold and did not cry either. Then, my lord——”

“Then what?” asked Mazarin.

“Look at my hat and cloak.”

And D’Artagnan displayed four gunshot holes in his cloak and two in his

beaver. As for Porthos’s coat, a blow from a halberd had cut it open on

the flank and a pistol shot had cut his feather in two.

“_Diavolo!_” said the cardinal, pensively gazing at the two friends

with lively admiration; “I should have cried, I should.”

At this moment the tumult was heard nearer.

Mazarin wiped his forehead and looked around him. He had a great desire

to go to the window, but he dared not.

“See what is going on, Monsieur D’Artagnan,” said he.

D’Artagnan went to the window with his habitual composure. “Oho!” said

he, “what is this? Maréchal de la Meilleraie returning without a

hat—Fontrailles with his arm in a sling—wounded guards—horses bleeding;

eh, then, what are the sentinels about? They are aiming—they are going

to fire!”

“They have received orders to fire on the people if the people approach

the Palais Royal!” exclaimed Mazarin.

“But if they fire, all is lost!” cried D’Artagnan.

“We have the gates.”

“The gates! to hold for five minutes—the gates, they will be torn down,

twisted into iron wire, ground to powder! God’s death, don’t fire!”

screamed D’Artagnan, throwing open the window.

In spite of this recommendation, which, owing to the noise, could

scarcely have been heard, two or three musket shots resounded,

succeeded by a terrible discharge. The balls might be heard peppering

the facade of the Palais Royal, and one of them, passing under

D’Artagnan’s arm, entered and broke a mirror, in which Porthos was

complacently admiring himself.

“Alack! alack!” cried the cardinal, “a Venetian glass!”

“Oh, my lord,” said D’Artagnan, quietly shutting the window, “it is not

worth while weeping yet, for probably an hour hence there will not be

one of your mirrors remaining in the Palais Royal, whether they be

Venetian or Parisian.”

“But what do you advise, then?” asked Mazarin, trembling.

“Eh, egad, to give up Broussel as they demand! What the devil do you

want with a member of the parliament? He is of no earthly use to

anybody.”

“And you, Monsieur du Vallon, is that your advice? What would you do?”

“I should give up Broussel,” said Porthos.

“Come, come with me, gentlemen!” exclaimed Mazarin. “I will go and

discuss the matter with the queen.”

He stopped at the end of the corridor and said:

“I can count upon you, gentlemen, can I not?”

“We do not give ourselves twice over,” said D’Artagnan; “we have given

ourselves to you; command, we shall obey.”

“Very well, then,” said Mazarin; “enter this cabinet and wait till I

come back.”

And turning off he entered the drawing-room by another door.

Chapter XLVIII.

The Riot becomes a Revolution.

The closet into which D’Artagnan and Porthos had been ushered was

separated from the drawing-room where the queen was by tapestried

curtains only, and this thin partition enabled them to hear all that

passed in the adjoining room, whilst the aperture between the two

hangings, small as it was, permitted them to see.

The queen was standing in the room, pale with anger; her self-control,

however, was so great that it might have been imagined that she was

calm. Comminges, Villequier and Guitant were behind her and the women

again were behind the men. The Chancellor Sequier, who twenty years

previously had persecuted her so ruthlessly, stood before her, relating

how his carriage had been smashed, how he had been pursued and had

rushed into the Hotel d’O——, that the hotel was immediately invaded,

pillaged and devastated; happily he had time to reach a closet hidden

behind tapestry, in which he was secreted by an old woman, together

with his brother, the Bishop of Meaux. Then the danger was so imminent,

the rioters came so near, uttering such threats, that the chancellor

thought his last hour had come and confessed himself to his brother

priest, so as to be all ready to die in case he was discovered.

Fortunately, however, he had not been taken; the people, believing that

he had escaped by some back entrance, retired and left him at liberty

to retreat. Then, disguised in the clothes of the Marquis d’O——, he had

left the hotel, stumbling over the bodies of an officer and two guards

who had been killed whilst defending the street door.

During the recital Mazarin entered and glided noiselessly up to the

queen to listen.

“Well,” said the queen, when the chancellor had finished speaking;

“what do you think of it all?”

“I think that matters look very gloomy, madame.”

“But what step would you propose to me?”

“I _could_ propose one to your majesty, but I dare not.”

“You may, you may, sir,” said the queen with a bitter smile; “you were

not so timid once.”

The chancellor reddened and stammered some words.

“It is not a question of the past, but of the present,” said the queen;

“you said you could give me advice—what is it?”

“Madame,” said the chancellor, hesitating, “it would be to release

Broussel.”

The queen, although already pale, became visibly paler and her face was

contracted.

“Release Broussel!” she cried, “never!”

At this moment steps were heard in the ante-room and without any

announcement the Maréchal de la Meilleraie appeared at the door.

“Ah, there you are, maréchal,” cried Anne of Austria joyfully. “I trust

you have brought this rabble to reason.”

“Madame,” replied the maréchal, “I have left three men on the Pont

Neuf, four at the Halle, six at the corner of the Rue de l’Arbre-Sec

and two at the door of your palace—fifteen in all. I have brought away

ten or twelve wounded. I know not where I have left my hat, and in all

probability I should have been left with my hat, had the coadjutor not

arrived in time to rescue me.”

“Ah, indeed,” said the queen, “it would have much astonished me if that

low cur, with his distorted legs, had not been mixed up with all this.”

“Madame,” said La Meilleraie, “do not say too much against him before

me, for the service he rendered me is still fresh.”

“Very good,” said the queen, “be as grateful as you like, it does not

implicate me; you are here safe and sound, that is all I wished for;

you are not only welcome, but welcome back.”

“Yes, madame; but I only came back on one condition—that I would

transmit to your majesty the will of the people.”

“The will!” exclaimed the queen, frowning. “Oh! oh! monsieur maréchal,

you must indeed have found yourself in wondrous peril to have

undertaken so strange a commission!”

The irony with which these words were uttered did not escape the

maréchal.

“Pardon, madame,” he said, “I am not a lawyer, I am a mere soldier, and

probably, therefore, I do not quite comprehend the value of certain

words; I ought to have said the wishes, and not the will, of the

people. As for what you do me the honor to say, I presume you mean I

was afraid?”

The queen smiled.

“Well, then, madame, yes, I did feel fear; and though I have been

through twelve pitched battles and I cannot count how many charges and

skirmishes, I own for the third time in my life I was afraid. Yes, and

I would rather face your majesty, however threatening your smile, than

face those demons who accompanied me hither and who sprung from I know

not whence, unless from deepest hell.”

(“Bravo,” said D’Artagnan in a whisper to Porthos; “well answered.”)

“Well,” said the queen, biting her lips, whilst her courtiers looked at

each other with surprise, “what is the desire of my people?”

“That Broussel shall be given up to them, madame.”

“Never!” said the queen, “never!”

“Your majesty is mistress,” said La Meilleraie, retreating a few steps.

“Where are you going, maréchal?” asked the queen.

“To give your majesty’s reply to those who await it.”

“Stay, maréchal; I will not appear to parley with rebels.”

“Madame, I have pledged my word, and unless you order me to be arrested

I shall be forced to return.”

Anne of Austria’s eyes shot glances of fire.

“Oh! that is no impediment, sir,” said she; “I have had greater men

than you arrested—Guitant!”

Mazarin sprang forward.

“Madame,” said he, “if I dared in my turn advise——”

“Would it be to give up Broussel, sir? If so, you can spare yourself

the trouble.”

“No,” said Mazarin; “although, perhaps, that counsel is as good as any

other.”

“Then what may it be?”

“To call for monsieur le coadjuteur.”

“The coadjutor!” cried the queen, “that dreadful mischief maker! It is

he who has raised all this revolt.”

“The more reason,” said Mazarin; “if he has raised it he can put it

down.”

“And hold, madame,” suggested Comminges, who was near a window, out of

which he could see; “hold, the moment is a happy one, for there he is

now, giving his blessing in the square of the Palais Royal.”

The queen sprang to the window.

“It is true,” she said, “the arch hypocrite—see!”

“I see,” said Mazarin, “that everybody kneels before him, although he

be but coadjutor, whilst I, were I in his place, though I am cardinal,

should be torn to pieces. I persist, then, madame, in my wish” (he laid

an emphasis on the word), “that your majesty should receive the

coadjutor.”

“And wherefore do you not say, like the rest, your _will?_” replied the

queen, in a low voice.

Mazarin bowed.

“Monsieur le maréchal,” said the queen, after a moment’s reflection,

“go and find the coadjutor and bring him to me.”

“And what shall I say to the people?”

“That they must have patience,” said Anne, “as I have.”

The fiery Spanish woman spoke in a tone so imperative that the maréchal

made no reply; he bowed and went out.

(D’Artagnan turned to Porthos. “How will this end?” he said.

“We shall soon see,” said Porthos, in his tranquil way.)

In the meantime Anne of Austria approached Comminges and conversed with

him in a subdued tone, whilst Mazarin glanced uneasily at the corner

occupied by D’Artagnan and Porthos. Ere long the door opened and the

maréchal entered, followed by the coadjutor.

“There, madame,” he said, “is Monsieur Gondy, who hastens to obey your

majesty’s summons.”

The queen advanced a few steps to meet him, and then stopped, cold,

severe, unmoved, with her lower lip scornfully protruded.

Gondy bowed respectfully.

“Well, sir,” said the queen, “what is your opinion of this riot?”

“That it is no longer a riot, madame,” he replied, “but a revolt.”

“The revolt is at the door of those who think my people can rebel,”

cried Anne, unable to dissimulate before the coadjutor, whom she looked

upon, and probably with reason, as the promoter of the tumult. “Revolt!

thus it is called by those who have wished for this demonstration and

who are, perhaps, the cause of it; but, wait, wait! the king’s

authority will put all this to rights.”

“Was it to tell me that, madame,” coldly replied Gondy, “that your

majesty admitted me to the honor of entering your presence?”

“No, my dear coadjutor,” said Mazarin; “it was to ask your advice in

the unhappy dilemma in which we find ourselves.”

“Is it true,” asked Gondy, feigning astonishment, “that her majesty

summoned me to ask for my opinion?”

“Yes,” said the queen, “it is requested.”

The coadjutor bowed.

“Your majesty wishes, then——”

“You to say what you would do in her place,” Mazarin hastened to reply.

The coadjutor looked at the queen, who replied by a sign in the

affirmative.

“Were I in her majesty’s place,” said Gondy, coldly, “I should not

hesitate; I should release Broussel.”

“And if I do not give him up, what think you will be the result?”

exclaimed the queen.

“I believe that not a stone in Paris will remain unturned,” put in the

maréchal.

“It was not your opinion that I asked,” said the queen, sharply,

without even turning around.

“If it is I whom your majesty interrogates,” replied the coadjutor in

the same calm manner, “I reply that I hold monsieur le maréchal’s

opinion in every respect.”

The color mounted to the queen’s face; her fine blue eyes seemed to

start out of her head and her carmine lips, compared by all the poets

of the day to a pomegranate in flower, were trembling with anger.

Mazarin himself, who was well accustomed to the domestic outbreaks of

this disturbed household, was alarmed.

“Give up Broussel!” she cried; “fine counsel, indeed. Upon my word! one

can easily see it comes from a priest.”

Gondy remained firm, and the abuse of the day seemed to glide over his

head as the sarcasms of the evening before had done; but hatred and

revenge were accumulating in his heart silently and drop by drop. He

looked coldly at the queen, who nudged Mazarin to make him say

something in his turn.

Mazarin, according to his custom, was thinking much and saying little.

“Ho! ho!” said he, “good advice, advice of a friend. I, too, would give

up that good Monsieur Broussel, dead or alive, and all would be at an

end.”

“If you yield him dead, all will indeed be at an end, my lord, but

quite otherwise than you mean.”

“Did I say ‘dead or alive?’” replied Mazarin. “It was only a way of

speaking. You know I am not familiar with the French language, which

you, monsieur le coadjuteur, both speak and write so well.”

(“This is a council of state,” D’Artagnan remarked to Porthos; “but we

held better ones at La Rochelle, with Athos and Aramis.”

“At the Saint Gervais bastion,” said Porthos.

“There and elsewhere.”)

The coadjutor let the storm pass over his head and resumed, still with

the same tranquillity:

“Madame, if the opinion I have submitted to you does not please you it

is doubtless because you have better counsels to follow. I know too

well the wisdom of the queen and that of her advisers to suppose that

they will leave the capital long in trouble that may lead to a

revolution.”

“Thus, then, it is your opinion,” said Anne of Austria, with a sneer

and biting her lips with rage, “that yesterday’s riot, which to-day is

already a rebellion, to-morrow may become a revolution?”

“Yes, madame,” replied the coadjutor, gravely.

“But if I am to believe you, sir, the people seem to have thrown off

all restraint.”

“It is a bad year for kings,” said Gondy, shaking his head; “look at

England, madame.”

“Yes; but fortunately we have no Oliver Cromwell in France,” replied

the queen.

“Who knows?” said Gondy; “such men are like thunderbolts—one recognizes

them only when they have struck.”

Every one shuddered and there was a moment of silence, during which the

queen pressed her hand to her side, evidently to still the beatings of

her heart.

(“Porthos,” murmured D’Artagnan, “look well at that priest.”

“Yes,” said Porthos, “I see him. What then?”

“Well, he is a man.”

Porthos looked at D’Artagnan in astonishment. Evidently he did not

understand his meaning.)

“Your majesty,” continued the coadjutor, pitilessly, “is about to take

such measures as seem good to you, but I foresee that they will be

violent and such as will still further exasperate the rioters.”

“In that case, you, monsieur le coadjuteur, who have such power over

them and are at the same time friendly to us,” said the queen,

ironically, “will quiet them by bestowing your blessing upon them.”

“Perhaps it will be too late,” said Gondy, still unmoved; “perhaps I

shall have lost all influence; while by giving up Broussel your majesty

will strike at the root of the sedition and will gain the right to

punish severely any revival of the revolt.”

“Have I not, then, that right?” cried the queen.

“If you have it, use it,” replied Gondy.

(“_Peste!_” said D’Artagnan to Porthos. “There is a man after my own

heart. Oh! if he were minister and I were his D’Artagnan, instead of

belonging to that beast of a Mazarin, _mordieu!_ what fine things we

would do together!”

“Yes,” said Porthos.)

The queen made a sign for every one, except Mazarin, to quit the room;

and Gondy bowed, as if to leave with the rest.

“Stay, sir,” said Anne to him.

“Good,” thought Gondy, “she is going to yield.”

(“She is going to have him killed,” said D’Artagnan to Porthos, “but at

all events it shall not be by me. I swear to Heaven, on the contrary,

that if they fall upon him I will fall upon them.”

“And I, too,” said Porthos.)

“Good,” muttered Mazarin, sitting down, “we shall soon see something

startling.”

The queen’s eyes followed the retreating figures and when the last had

closed the door she turned away. It was evident that she was making

unnatural efforts to subdue her anger; she fanned herself, smelled at

her vinaigrette and walked up and down. Gondy, who began to feel

uneasy, examined the tapestry with his eyes, touched the coat of mail

which he wore under his long gown and felt from time to time to see if

the handle of a good Spanish dagger, which was hidden under his cloak,

was well within reach.

“And now,” at last said the queen, “now that we are alone, repeat your

counsel, monsieur le coadjuteur.”

“It is this, madame: that you should appear to have reflected, and

publicly acknowledge an error, which constitutes the extra strength of

a strong government; release Broussel from prison and give him back to

the people.”

“Oh!” cried Anne, “to humble myself thus! Am I, or am I not, the queen?

This screaming mob, are they, or are they not, my subjects? Have I

friends? Have I guards? Ah! by Notre Dame! as Queen Catherine used to

say,” continued she, excited by her own words, “rather than give up

this infamous Broussel to them I will strangle him with my own hands!”

And she sprang toward Gondy, whom assuredly at that moment she hated

more than Broussel, with outstretched arms. The coadjutor remained

immovable and not a muscle of his face was discomposed; only his glance

flashed like a sword in returning the furious looks of the queen.

(“He were a dead man” said the Gascon, “if there were still a Vitry at

the court and if Vitry entered at this moment; but for my part, before

he could reach the good prelate I would kill Vitry at once; the

cardinal would be infinitely pleased with me.”

“Hush!” said Porthos; “listen.”)

“Madame,” cried the cardinal, seizing hold of Anne and drawing her

back, “Madame, what are you about?”

Then he added in Spanish, “Anne, are you mad? You, a queen to quarrel

like a washerwoman! And do you not perceive that in the person of this

priest is represented the whole people of Paris and that it is

dangerous to insult him at this moment, and if this priest wished it,

in an hour you would be without a crown? Come, then, on another

occasion you can be firm and strong; but to-day is not the proper time;

to-day, flatter and caress, or you are only a common woman.”

(At the first words of this address D’Artagnan had seized Porthos’s

arm, which he pressed with gradually increasing force. When Mazarin

ceased speaking he said to Porthos in a low tone:

“Never tell Mazarin that I understand Spanish, or I am a lost man and

you are also.”

“All right,” said Porthos.)

This rough appeal, marked by the eloquence which characterized Mazarin

when he spoke in Italian or Spanish and which he lost entirely in

speaking French, was uttered with such impenetrable expression that

Gondy, clever physiognomist as he was, had no suspicion of its being

more than a simple warning to be more subdued.

The queen, on her part, thus chided, softened immediately and sat down,

and in an almost weeping voice, letting her arms fall by her side,

said:

“Pardon me, sir, and attribute this violence to what I suffer. A woman,

and consequently subject to the weaknesses of my sex, I am alarmed at

the idea of civil war; a queen, accustomed to be obeyed, I am excited

at the first opposition.”

“Madame,” replied Gondy, bowing, “your majesty is mistaken in

qualifying my sincere advice as opposition. Your majesty has none but

submissive and respectful subjects. It is not the queen with whom the

people are displeased; they ask for Broussel and are only too happy, if

you release him to them, to live under your government.”

Mazarin, who at the words, “It is not the queen with whom the people

are displeased,” had pricked up his ears, thinking that the coadjutor

was about to speak of the cries, “Down with Mazarin,” and pleased with

Gondy’s suppression of this fact, he said with his sweetest voice and

his most gracious expression:

“Madame, credit the coadjutor, who is one of the most able politicians

we have; the first available cardinal’s hat seems to belong already to

his noble brow.”

“Ah! how much you have need of me, cunning rogue!” thought Gondy.

(“And what will he promise us?” said D’Artagnan. “_Peste_, if he is

giving away hats like that, Porthos, let us look out and both demand a

regiment to-morrow. _Corbleu!_ let the civil war last but one year and

I will have a constable’s sword gilt for me.”

“And for me?” put in Porthos.

“For you? I will give you the baton of the Maréchal de la Meilleraie,

who does not seem to be much in favor just now.”)

“And so, sir,” said the queen, “you are seriously afraid of a public

tumult.”

“Seriously,” said Gondy, astonished at not having further advanced; “I

fear that when the torrent has broken its embankment it will cause

fearful destruction.”

“And I,” said the queen, “think that in such a case other embankments

should be raised to oppose it. Go; I will reflect.”

Gondy looked at Mazarin, astonished, and Mazarin approached the queen

to speak to her, but at this moment a frightful tumult arose from the

square of the Palais Royal.

Gondy smiled, the queen’s color rose and Mazarin grew even paler.

“What is that again?” he asked.

At this moment Comminges rushed into the room.

“Pardon, your majesty,” he cried, “but the people have dashed the

sentinels against the gates and they are now forcing the doors; what

are your commands?”

“Listen, madame,” said Gondy.

The moaning of waves, the noise of thunder, the roaring of a volcano,

cannot be compared with the tempest of cries heard at that moment.

“What are my commands?” said the queen.

“Yes, for time presses.”

“How many men have you about the Palais Royal?”

“Six hundred.”

“Place a hundred around the king and with the remainder sweep away this

mob for me.”

“Madame,” cried Mazarin, “what are you about?”

“Go!” said the queen.

Comminges went out with a soldier’s passive obedience.

At this moment a monstrous battering was heard. One of the gates began

to yield.

“Oh! madame,” cried Mazarin, “you have ruined us all—the king, yourself

and me.”

At this cry from the soul of the frightened cardinal, Anne became

alarmed in her turn and would have recalled Comminges.

“It is too late,” said Mazarin, tearing his hair, “too late!”

The gale had given way. Hoarse shouts were heard from the excited mob.

D’Artagnan put his hand to his sword, motioning to Porthos to follow

his example.

“Save the queen!” cried Mazarin to the coadjutor.

Gondy sprang to the window and threw it open; he recognized Louvières

at the head of a troop of about three or four thousand men.

“Not a step further,” he shouted, “the queen is signing!”

“What are you saying?” asked the queen.

“The truth, madame,” said Mazarin, placing a pen and a paper before

her, “you must;” then he added: “Sign, Anne, I implore you—I _command_

you.”

The queen fell into a chair, took the pen and signed.

The people, kept back by Louvières, had not made another step forward;

but the awful murmuring, which indicates an angry people, continued.

The queen had written, “The keeper of the prison at Saint Germain will

set Councillor Broussel at liberty;” and she had signed it.

The coadjutor, whose eyes devoured her slightest movements, seized the

paper immediately the signature had been affixed to it, returned to the

window and waved it in his hand.

“This is the order,” he said.

All Paris seemed to shout with joy, and then the air resounded with the

cries of “Long live Broussel!” “Long live the coadjutor!”

“Long live the queen!” cried De Gondy; but the cries which replied to

his were poor and few, and perhaps he had but uttered it to make Anne

of Austria sensible of her weakness.

“And now that you have obtained what you want, go,” said she, “Monsieur

de Gondy.”

“Whenever her majesty has need of me,” replied the coadjutor, bowing,

“her majesty knows I am at her command.”

“Ah, cursed priest!” cried Anne, when he had retired, stretching out

her arm to the scarcely closed door, “one day I will make you drink the

dregs of the atrocious gall you have poured out on me to-day.”

Mazarin wished to approach her. “Leave me!” she exclaimed; “you are not

a man!” and she went out of the room.

“It is you who are not a woman,” muttered Mazarin.

Then, after a moment of reverie, he remembered where he had left

D’Artagnan and Porthos and that they must have overheard everything. He

knit his brows and went direct to the tapestry, which he pushed aside.

The closet was empty.

At the queen’s last word, D’Artagnan had dragged Porthos into the

gallery. Thither Mazarin went in his turn and found the two friends

walking up and down.

“Why did you leave the closet, Monsieur d’Artagnan?” asked the

cardinal.

“Because,” replied D’Artagnan, “the queen desired every one to leave

and I thought that this command was intended for us as well as for the

rest.”

“And you have been here since——”

“About a quarter of an hour,” said D’Artagnan, motioning to Porthos not

to contradict him.

Mazarin saw the sign and remained convinced that D’Artagnan had seen

and heard everything; but he was pleased with his falsehood.

“Decidedly, Monsieur d’Artagnan, you are the man I have been seeking.

You may reckon upon me and so may your friend.” Then bowing to the two

musketeers with his most gracious smile, he re-entered his closet more

calmly, for on the departure of De Gondy the uproar had ceased as

though by enchantment.

Chapter XLIX.

Misfortune refreshes the Memory.

Anne of Austria returned to her oratory, furious.

“What!” she cried, wringing her beautiful hands, “What! the people have

seen Monsieur de Condé, a prince of the blood royal, arrested by my

mother-in-law, Maria de Médicis; they saw my mother-in-law, their

former regent, expelled by the cardinal; they saw Monsieur de Vendôme,

that is to say, the son of Henry IV., a prisoner at Vincennes; and

whilst these great personages were imprisoned, insulted and threatened,

they said nothing; and now for a Broussel—good God! what, then, is to

become of royalty?”

The queen unconsciously touched here upon the exciting question. The

people had made no demonstration for the princes, but they had risen

for Broussel; they were taking the part of a plebeian and in defending

Broussel they instinctively felt they were defending themselves.

During this time Mazarin walked up and down the study, glancing from

time to time at his beautiful Venetian mirror, starred in every

direction. “Ah!” he said, “it is sad, I know well, to be forced to

yield thus; but, pshaw! we shall have our revenge. What matters it

about Broussel—it is a name, not a thing.”

Mazarin, clever politician as he was, was for once mistaken; Broussel

was a thing, not a name.

The next morning, therefore, when Broussel made his entrance into Paris

in a large carriage, having his son Louvières at his side and Friquet

behind the vehicle, the people threw themselves in his way and cries of

“Long live Broussel!” “Long live our father!” resounded from all parts

and was death to Mazarin’s ears; and the cardinal’s spies brought bad

news from every direction, which greatly agitated the minister, but was

calmly received by the queen. The latter seemed to be maturing in her

mind some great stroke, a fact which increased the uneasiness of the

cardinal, who knew the proud princess and dreaded much the

determination of Anne of Austria.

The coadjutor returned to parliament more a monarch than king, queen,

and cardinal, all three together. By his advice a decree from

parliament summoned the citizens to lay down their arms and demolish

the barricades. They now knew that it required but one hour to take up

arms again and one night to reconstruct the barricades.

Rochefort had returned to the Chevalier d’Humières his fifty horsemen,

less two, missing at roll call. But the chevalier was himself at heart

a Frondist and would hear nothing said of compensation.

The mendicant had gone to his old place on the steps of Saint Eustache

and was again distributing holy water with one hand and asking alms

with the other. No one could suspect that those two hands had been

engaged with others in drawing out from the social edifice the keystone

of royalty.

Louvières was proud and satisfied; he had taken revenge on Mazarin and

had aided in his father’s deliverance from prison. His name had been

mentioned as a name of terror at the Palais Royal. Laughingly he said

to the councillor, restored to his family:

“Do you think, father, that if now I should ask for a company the queen

would give it to me?”

D’Artagnan profited by this interval of calm to send away Raoul, whom

he had great difficulty in keeping shut up during the riot, and who

wished positively to strike a blow for one party or the other. Raoul

had offered some opposition at first; but D’Artagnan made use of the

Comte de la Fère’s name, and after paying a visit to Madame de

Chevreuse, Raoul started to rejoin the army.

Rochefort alone was dissatisfied with the termination of affairs. He

had written to the Duc de Beaufort to come and the duke was about to

arrive, and he would find Paris tranquil. He went to the coadjutor to

consult with him whether it would not be better to send word to the

duke to stop on the road, but Gondy reflected for a moment, and then

said:

“Let him continue his journey.”

“All is not then over?” asked Rochefort.

“My dear count, we have only just begun.”

“What induces you to think so?”

“The knowledge that I have of the queen’s heart; she will not rest

contented beaten.”

“Is she, then, preparing for a stroke?”

“I hope so.”

“Come, let us see what you know.”

“I know that she has written to the prince to return in haste from the

army.”

“Ah! ha!” said Rochefort, “you are right. We must let Monsieur de

Beaufort come.”

In fact, the evening after this conversation the report was circulated

that the Prince de Condé had arrived. It was a very simple, natural

circumstance and yet it created a profound sensation. It was said that

Madame de Longueville, for whom the prince had more than a brother’s

affection and in whom he had confided, had been indiscreet. His

confidence had unveiled the sinister project of the queen.

Even on the night of the prince’s return, some citizens, bolder than

the rest, such as the sheriffs, captains and the quartermaster, went

from house to house among their friends, saying:

“Why do we not take the king and place him in the Hotel de Ville? It is

a shame to leave him to be educated by our enemies, who will give him

evil counsel; whereas, brought up by the coadjutor, for instance, he

would imbibe national principles and love his people.”

That night the question was secretly agitated and on the morrow the

gray and black cloaks, the patrols of armed shop-people, and the bands

of mendicants reappeared.

The queen had passed the night in lonely conference with the prince,

who had entered the oratory at midnight and did not leave till five

o’clock in the morning.

At five o’clock Anne went to the cardinal’s room. If she had not yet

taken any repose, he at least was already up. Six days had already

passed out of the ten he had asked from Mordaunt; he was therefore

occupied in revising his reply to Cromwell, when some one knocked

gently at the door of communication with the queen’s apartments. Anne

of Austria alone was permitted to enter by that door. The cardinal

therefore rose to open it.

The queen was in a morning gown, but it became her still; for, like

Diana of Poictiers and Ninon, Anne of Austria enjoyed the privilege of

remaining ever beautiful; nevertheless, this morning she looked

handsomer than usual, for her eyes had all the sparkle inward

satisfaction adds to expression.

“What is the matter, madame?” said Mazarin, uneasily. “You seem

secretly elated.”

“Yes, Giulio,” she said, “proud and happy; for I have found the means

of strangling this hydra.”

“You are a great politician, my queen,” said Mazarin; “let us hear the

means.” And he hid what he had written by sliding the letter under a

folio of blank paper.

“You know,” said the queen, “that they want to take the king away from

me?”

“Alas! yes, and to hang me.”

“They shall not have the king.”

“Nor hang me.”

“Listen. I want to carry off my son from them, with yourself. I wish

that this event, which on the day it is known will completely change

the aspect of affairs, should be accomplished without the knowledge of

any others but yourself, myself, and a third person.”

“And who is this third person?”

“Monsieur le Prince.”

“He has come, then, as they told me?”

“Last evening.”

“And you have seen him?”

“He has just left me.”

“And will he aid this project?”

“The plan is his own.”

“And Paris?”

“He will starve it out and force it to surrender at discretion.”

“The plan is not wanting in grandeur; I see but one impediment.”

“What is it?”

“Impossibility.”

“A senseless word. Nothing is impossible.”

“On paper.”

“In execution. We have money?”

“A little,” said Mazarin, trembling, lest Anne should ask to draw upon

his purse.

“Troops?”

“Five or six thousand men.”

“Courage?”

“Plenty.”

“Then the thing is easy. Oh! do think of it, Giulio! Paris, this odious

Paris, waking up one morning without queen or king, surrounded,

besieged, famished—having for its sole resource its stupid parliament

and their coadjutor with crooked limbs!”

“Charming! charming!” said Mazarin. “I can imagine the effect, I do not

see the means.”

“I will find the means myself.”

“You are aware it will be war, civil war, furious, devouring,

implacable?”

“Oh! yes, yes, war,” said Anne of Austria. “Yes, I will reduce this

rebellious city to ashes. I will extinguish the fire with blood! I will

perpetuate the crime and punishment by making a frightful example.

Paris!; I—I detest, I loathe it!”

“Very fine, Anne. You are now sanguinary; but take care. We are not in

the time of Malatesta and Castruccio Castracani. You will get yourself

decapitated, my beautiful queen, and that would be a pity.”

“You laugh.”

“Faintly. It is dangerous to go to war with a nation. Look at your

brother monarch, Charles I. He is badly off, very badly.”

“We are in France, and I am Spanish.”

“So much the worse; I had much rather you were French and myself also;

they would hate us both less.”

“Nevertheless, you consent?”

“Yes, if the thing be possible.”

“It is; it is I who tell you so; make preparations for departure.”

“I! I am always prepared to go, only, as you know, I never do go, and

perhaps shall go this time as little as before.”

“In short, if I go, will you go too?”

“I will try.”

“You torment me, Giulio, with your fears; and what are you afraid of,

then?”

“Of many things.”

“What are they?”

Mazarin’s face, smiling as it was, became clouded.

“Anne,” said he, “you are but a woman and as a woman you may insult men

at your ease, knowing that you can do it with impunity. You accuse me

of fear; I have not so much as you have, since I do not fly as you do.

Against whom do they cry out? is it against you or against myself? Whom

would they hang, yourself or me? Well, I can weather the storm—I, whom,

notwithstanding, you tax with fear—not with bravado, that is not my

way; but I am firm. Imitate me. Make less hubbub and think more deeply.

You cry very loud, you end by doing nothing; you talk of flying——”

Mazarin shrugged his shoulders and taking the queen’s hand led her to

the window.

“Look!” he said.

“Well?” said the queen, blinded by her obstinacy.

“Well, what do you see from this window? If I am not mistaken those are

citizens, helmeted and mailed, armed with good muskets, as in the time

of the League, and whose eyes are so intently fixed on this window that

they will see you if you raise that curtain much; and now come to the

other side—what do you see? Creatures of the people, armed with

halberds, guarding your doors. You will see the same at every opening

from this palace to which I should lead you. Your doors are guarded,

the airholes of your cellars are guarded, and I could say to you, as

that good La Ramee said to me of the Duc de Beaufort, you must be

either bird or mouse to get out.”

“He did get out, nevertheless.”

“Do you think of escaping in the same way?”

“I am a prisoner, then?”

“_Parbleu!_” said Mazarin, “I have been proving it to you this last

hour.”

And he quietly resumed his dispatch at the place where he had been

interrupted.

Anne, trembling with anger and scarlet with humiliation, left the room,

shutting the door violently after her. Mazarin did not even turn

around. When once more in her own apartment Anne fell into a chair and

wept; then suddenly struck with an idea:

“I am saved!” she exclaimed, rising; “oh, yes! yes! I know a man who

will find the means of taking me from Paris, a man I have too long

forgotten.” Then falling into a reverie, she added, however, with an

expression of joy, “Ungrateful woman that I am, for twenty years I have

forgotten this man, whom I ought to have made a maréchal of France. My

mother-in-law expended gold, caresses, dignities on Concini, who ruined

her; the king made Vitry maréchal of France for an assassination: while

I have left in obscurity, in poverty, the noble D’Artagnan, who saved

me!”

And running to a table, on which were paper, pens and ink, she hastily

began to write.

Chapter L.

The Interview.

It had been D’Artagnan’s practice, ever since the riots, to sleep in

the same room as Porthos, and on this eventful morning he was still

there, sleeping, and dreaming that a yellow cloud had overspread the

sky and was raining gold pieces into his hat, which he held out till it

was overflowing with pistoles. As for Porthos, he dreamed that the

panels of his carriage were not capacious enough to contain the

armorial bearings he had ordered to be painted on them. They were both

aroused at seven o’clock by the entrance of an unliveried servant, who

brought a letter for D’Artagnan.

“From whom?” asked the Gascon.

“From the queen,” replied the servant.

“Ho!” said Porthos, raising himself in his bed; “what does she say?”

D’Artagnan requested the servant to wait in the next room and when the

door was closed he sprang up from his bed and read rapidly, whilst

Porthos looked at him with starting eyes, not daring to ask a single

question.

“Friend Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, handing the letter to him, “this

time, at least, you are sure of your title of baron, and I of my

captaincy. Read for yourself and judge.”

Porthos took the letter and with a trembling voice read the following

words:

“The queen wishes to speak to Monsieur d’Artagnan, who must follow the

bearer.”

“Well!” exclaimed Porthos; “I see nothing in that very extraordinary.”

“But I see much that is very extraordinary in it,” replied D’Artagnan.

“It is evident, by their sending for me, that matters are becoming

complicated. Just reflect a little what an agitation the queen’s mind

must be in for her to have remembered me after twenty years.”

“It is true,” said Porthos.

“Sharpen your sword, baron, load your pistols, and give some corn to

the horses, for I will answer for it, something lightning-like will

happen ere to-morrow.”

“But, stop; do you think it can be a trap that they are laying for us?”

suggested Porthos, incessantly thinking how his greatness must be

irksome to inferior people.

“If it is a snare,” replied D’Artagnan, “I shall scent it out, be

assured. If Mazarin is an Italian, I am a Gascon.”

And D’Artagnan dressed himself in an instant.

Whilst Porthos, still in bed, was hooking on his cloak for him, a

second knock at the door was heard.

“Come in,” exclaimed D’Artagnan; and another servant entered.

“From His Eminence, Cardinal Mazarin,” presenting a letter.

D’Artagnan looked at Porthos.

“A complicated affair,” said Porthos; “where will you begin?”

“It is arranged capitally; his eminence expects me in half an hour.”

“Good.”

“My friend,” said D’Artagnan, turning to the servant, “tell his

eminence that in half an hour I shall be at his command.”

“It is very fortunate,” resumed the Gascon, when the valet had retired,

“that he did not meet the other one.”

“Do you not think that they have sent for you, both for the same

thing?”

“I do not think it, I am certain of it.”

“Quick, quick, D’Artagnan. Remember that the queen awaits you, and

after the queen, the cardinal, and after the cardinal, myself.”

D’Artagnan summoned Anne of Austria’s servant and signified that he was

ready to follow him into the queen’s presence.

The servant conducted him by the Rue des Petits Champs and turning to

the left entered the little garden gate leading into the Rue Richelieu;

then they gained the private staircase and D’Artagnan was ushered into

the oratory. A certain emotion, for which he could not account, made

the lieutenant’s heart beat: he had no longer the assurance of youth;

experience had taught him the importance of past events. Formerly he

would have approached the queen as a young man who bends before a

woman; but now it was a different thing; he answered her summons as an

humble soldier obeys an illustrious general.

The silence of the oratory was at last disturbed by the slight rustling

of silk, and D’Artagnan started when he perceived the tapestry raised

by a white hand, which, by its form, its color and its beauty he

recognized as that royal hand which had one day been presented to him

to kiss. The queen entered.

“It is you, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” she said, fixing a gaze full of

melancholy interest on the countenance of the officer, “and I know you

well. Look at me well in your turn. I am the queen; do you recognize

me?”

“No, madame,” replied D’Artagnan.

“But are you no longer aware,” continued Anne, giving that sweet

expression to her voice which she could do at will, “that in former

days the queen had once need of a young, brave and devoted

cavalier—that she found this cavalier—and that, although he might have

thought that she had forgotten him, she had kept a place for him in the

depths of her heart?”

“No, madame, I was ignorant of that,” said the musketeer.

“So much the worse, sir,” said Anne of Austria; “so much the worse, at

least for the queen, for to-day she has need of the same courage and

the same devotion.”

“What!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, “does the queen, surrounded as she is by

such devoted servants, such wise counselors, men, in short, so great by

merit or position—does she deign to cast her eyes on an obscure

soldier?”

Anne understood this covert reproach and was more moved than irritated

by it. She had many a time felt humiliated by the self-sacrifice and

disinterestedness shown by the Gascon gentleman. She had allowed

herself to be exceeded in generosity.

“All that you tell me of those by whom I am surrounded, Monsieur

d’Artagnan, is doubtless true,” said the queen, “but I have confidence

in you alone. I know that you belong to the cardinal, but belong to me

as well, and I will take upon myself the making of your fortune. Come,

will you do to-day what formerly the gentleman you do not know did for

the queen?”

“I will do everything your majesty commands,” replied D’Artagnan.

The queen reflected for a moment and then, seeing the cautious demeanor

of the musketeer:

“Perhaps you like repose?” she said.

“I do not know, for I have never had it, madame.”

“Have you any friends?”

“I had three, two of whom have left Paris, to go I know not where. One

alone is left to me, but he is one of those known, I believe, to the

cavalier of whom your majesty did me the honor to speak.”

“Very good,” said the queen; “you and your friend are worth an army.”

“What am I to do, madame?”

“Return at five o’clock and I will tell you; but do not breathe to a

living soul, sir, the rendezvous which I give you.”

“No, madame.”

“Swear it upon the cross.”

“Madame, I have never been false to my word; when I say I will not do a

thing, I mean it.”

The queen, although astonished at this language, to which she was not

accustomed from her courtiers, argued from it a happy omen of the zeal

with which D’Artagnan would serve her in the accomplishment of her

project. It was one of the Gascon’s artifices to hide his deep cunning

occasionally under an appearance of rough loyalty.

“Has the queen any further commands for me now?” asked D’Artagnan.

“No, sir,” replied Anne of Austria, “and you may retire until the time

that I mentioned to you.”

D’Artagnan bowed and went out.

“_Diable!_” he exclaimed when the door was shut, “they seem to have the

greatest need of me just now.”

Then, as the half hour had already glided by, he crossed the gallery

and knocked at the cardinal’s door.

Bernouin introduced him.

“I come for your commands, my lord,” he said.

And according to his custom D’Artagnan glanced rapidly around and

remarked that Mazarin had a sealed letter before him. But it was so

placed on the desk that he could not see to whom it was addressed.

“You come from the queen?” said Mazarin, looking fixedly at D’Artagnan.

“I! my lord—who told you that?”

“Nobody, but I know it.”

“I regret infinitely to tell you, my lord, that you are mistaken,”

replied the Gascon, impudently, firm to the promise he had just made to

Anne of Austria.

“I opened the door of the ante-room myself and I saw you enter at the

end of the corridor.”

“Because I was shown up the private stairs.”

“How so?”

“I know not; it must have been a mistake.”

Mazarin was aware that it was not easy to make D’Artagnan reveal

anything he was desirous of hiding, so he gave up, for the time, the

discovery of the mystery the Gascon was concealing.

“Let us speak of my affairs,” said Mazarin, “since you will tell me

naught of yours. Are you fond of traveling?”

“My life has been passed on the high road.”

“Would anything retain you particularly in Paris?”

“Nothing but an order from a superior would retain me in Paris.”

“Very well. Here is a letter, which must be taken to its address.”

“To its address, my lord? But it has none.”

In fact, the side of the letter opposite the seal was blank.

“I must tell you,” resumed Mazarin, “that it is in a double envelope.”

“I understand; and I am to take off the first one when I have reached a

certain place?”

“Just so, take it and go. You have a friend, Monsieur du Vallon, whom I

like much; let him accompany you.”

“The devil!” said D’Artagnan to himself. “He knows that we overheard

his conversation yesterday and he wants to get us away from Paris.”

“Do you hesitate?” asked Mazarin.

“No, my lord, and I will set out at once. There is one thing only which

I must request.”

“What is it? Speak.”

“That your eminence will go at once to the queen.”

“What for?”

“Merely to say these words: ‘I am going to send Monsieur d’Artagnan

away and I wish him to set out directly.’”

“I told you,” said Mazarin, “that you had seen the queen.”

“I had the honor of saying to your eminence that there had been some

mistake.”

“What is the meaning of that?”

“May I venture to repeat my prayer to your eminence?”

“Very well; I will go. Wait here for me.” And looking attentively

around him, to see if he had left any of his keys in his closets,

Mazarin went out. Ten minutes elapsed, during which D’Artagnan made

every effort to read through the first envelope what was written on the

second. But he did not succeed.

Mazarin returned, pale, and evidently thoughtful. He seated himself at

his desk and D’Artagnan proceeded to examine his face, as he had just

examined the letter he held, but the envelope which covered his

countenance appeared as impenetrable as that which covered the letter.

“Ah!” thought the Gascon; “he looks displeased. Can it be with me? He

meditates. Is it about sending me to the Bastile? All very fine, my

lord, but at the very first hint you give of such a thing I will

strangle you and become Frondist. I should be carried home in triumph

like Monsieur Broussel and Athos would proclaim me the French Brutus.

It would be exceedingly droll.”

The Gascon, with his vivid imagination, had already seen the advantage

to be derived from his situation. Mazarin gave, however, no order of

the kind, but on the contrary began to be insinuating.

“You were right,” he said, “my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, and you cannot

set out yet. I beg you to return me that dispatch.”

D’Artagnan obeyed, and Mazarin ascertained that the seal was intact.

“I shall want you this evening,” he said “Return in two hours.”

“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, “I have an appointment in two hours which I

cannot miss.”

“Do not be uneasy,” said Mazarin; “it is the same.”

“Good!” thought D’Artagnan; “I fancied it was so.”

“Return, then, at five o’clock and bring that worthy Monsieur du Vallon

with you. Only, leave him in the ante-room, as I wish to speak to you

alone.”

D’Artagnan bowed, and thought: “Both at the same hour; both commands

alike; both at the Palais Royal. Monsieur de Gondy would pay a hundred

thousand francs for such a secret!”

“You are thoughtful,” said Mazarin, uneasily.

“Yes, I was thinking whether we ought to come armed or not.”

“Armed to the teeth!” replied Mazarin.

“Very well, my lord; it shall be so.”

D’Artagnan saluted, went out and hastened to repeat to his friend

Mazarin’s flattering promises, which gave Porthos an indescribable

happiness.

Chapter LI.

The Flight.

When D’Artagnan returned to the Palais Royal at five o’clock, it

presented, in spite of the excitement which reigned in the town, a

spectacle of the greatest rejoicing. Nor was that surprising. The queen

had restored Broussel and Blancmesnil to the people and had therefore

nothing to fear, since the people had nothing more just then to ask

for. The return, also, of the conqueror of Lens was the pretext for

giving a grand banquet. The princes and princesses were invited and

their carriages had crowded the court since noon; then after dinner the

queen was to have a play in her apartment. Anne of Austria had never

appeared more brilliant than on that day—radiant with grace and wit.

Mazarin disappeared as they rose from table. He found D’Artagnan

waiting for him already at his post in the ante-room.

The cardinal advanced to him with a smile and taking him by the hand

led him into his study.

“My dear M. d’Artagnan,” said the minister, sitting down, “I am about

to give you the greatest proof of confidence that a minister can give

an officer.”

“I hope,” said D’Artagnan, bowing, “that you give it, my lord, without

hesitation and with the conviction that I am worthy of it.”

“More worthy than any one in Paris my dear friend; therefore I apply to

you. We are about to leave this evening,” continued Mazarin. “My dear

M. d’Artagnan, the welfare of the state is deposited in your hands.” He

paused.

“Explain yourself, my lord, I am listening.”

“The queen has resolved to make a little excursion with the king to

Saint Germain.”

“Aha!” said D’Artagnan, “that is to say, the queen wishes to leave

Paris.”

“A woman’s caprice—you understand.”

“Yes, I understand perfectly,” said D’Artagnan.

“It was for this she summoned you this morning and that she told you to

return at five o’clock.”

“Was it worth while to wish me to swear this morning that I would

mention the appointment to no one?” muttered D’Artagnan. “Oh, women!

women! whether queens or not, they are always the same.”

“Do you disapprove of this journey, my dear M. d’Artagnan?” asked

Mazarin, anxiously.

“I, my lord?” said D’Artagnan; “why should I?”

“Because you shrug your shoulders.”

“It is a way I have of speaking to myself. I neither approve nor

disapprove, my lord; I merely await your commands.”

“Good; it is you, accordingly, that I have pitched upon to conduct the

king and the queen to Saint Germain.”

“Liar!” thought D’Artagnan.

“You see, therefore,” continued the cardinal, perceiving D’Artagnan’s

composure, “that, as I have told you, the welfare of the state is

placed in your hands.”

“Yes, my lord, and I feel the whole responsibility of such a charge.”

“You accept, however?”

“I always accept.”

“Do you think the thing possible?”

“Everything is possible.”

“Shall you be attacked on the road?”

“Probably.”

“And what will you do in that case?”

“I shall pass through those who attack me.”

“And suppose you cannot pass through them?”

“So much the worse for them; I shall pass over them.”

“And you will place the king and queen in safety also, at Saint

Germain?”

“Yes.”

“On your life?”

“On my life.”

“You are a hero, my friend,” said Mazarin, gazing at the musketeer with

admiration.

D’Artagnan smiled.

“And I?” asked Mazarin, after a moment’s silence.

“How? and you, my lord?”

“If I wish to leave?”

“That would be much more difficult.”

“Why so?”

“Your eminence might be recognized.”

“Even under this disguise?” asked Mazarin, raising a cloak which

covered an arm-chair, upon which lay a complete dress for an officer,

of pearl-gray and red, entirely embroidered with silver.

“If your eminence is disguised it will be almost easy.”

“Ah!” said Mazarin, breathing more freely.

“But it will be necessary for your eminence to do what the other day

you declared you should have done in our place—cry, ‘Down with

Mazarin!’”

“I will: ‘Down with Mazarin’”

“In French, in good French, my lord, take care of your accent; they

killed six thousand Angevins in Sicily because they pronounced Italian

badly. Take care that the French do not take their revenge on you for

the Sicilian vespers.”

“I will do my best.”

“The streets are full of armed men,” continued D’Artagnan. “Are you

sure that no one is aware of the queen’s project?”

Mazarin reflected.

“This affair would give a fine opportunity for a traitor, my lord; the

chance of being attacked would be an excuse for everything.”

Mazarin shuddered, but he reflected that a man who had the least

intention to betray would not warn first.

“And therefore,” added he, quietly, “I have not confidence in every

one; the proof of which is, that I have fixed upon you to escort me.”

“Shall you not go with the queen?”

“No,” replied Mazarin.

“Then you will start after the queen?”

“No,” said Mazarin again.

“Ah!” said D’Artagnan, who began to understand.

“Yes,” continued the cardinal. “I have my plan. With the queen I double

her risk; after the queen her departure would double mine; then, the

court once safe, I might be forgotten. The great are often ungrateful.”

“Very true,” said D’Artagnan, fixing his eyes, in spite of himself, on

the queen’s diamond, which Mazarin wore on his finger. Mazarin followed

the direction of his eyes and gently turned the hoop of the ring

inside.

“I wish,” he said, with his cunning smile, “to prevent them from being

ungrateful to me.”

“It is but Christian charity,” replied D’Artagnan, “not to lead one’s

neighbors into temptation.”

“It is exactly for that reason,” said Mazarin, “that I wish to start

_before_ them.”

D’Artagnan smiled—he was just the man to understand the astute Italian.

Mazarin saw the smile and profited by the moment.

“You will begin, therefore, by taking me first out of Paris, will you

not, my dear M. d’Artagnan?”

“A difficult commission, my lord,” replied D’Artagnan, resuming his

serious manner.

“But,” said Mazarin, “you did not make so many difficulties with regard

to the king and queen.”

“The king and the queen are my king and queen,” replied the musketeer,

“my life is theirs and I must give it for them. If they ask it what

have I to say?”

“That is true,” murmured Mazarin, in a low tone, “but as thy life is

not mine I suppose I must buy it, must I not?” and sighing deeply he

began to turn the hoop of his ring outside again. D’Artagnan smiled.

These two men met at one point and that was, cunning; had they been

actuated equally by courage, the one would have done great things for

the other.

“But, also,” said Mazarin, “you must understand that if I ask this

service from you it is with the intention of being grateful.”

“Is it still only an intention, your eminence?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Stay,” said Mazarin, drawing the ring from his finger, “my dear

D’Artagnan, there is a diamond which belonged to you formerly, it is

but just it should return to you; take it, I pray.”

D’Artagnan spared Mazarin the trouble of insisting, and after looking

to see if the stone was the same and assuring himself of the purity of

its water, he took it and passed it on his finger with indescribable

pleasure.

“I valued it much,” said Mazarin, giving a last look at it;

“nevertheless, I give it to you with great pleasure.”

“And I, my lord,” said D’Artagnan, “accept it as it is given. Come, let

us speak of your little affairs. You wish to leave before everybody and

at what hour?”

“At ten o’clock.”

“And the queen, at what time is it her wish to start?”

“At midnight.”

“Then it is possible. I can get you out of Paris and leave you beyond

the _barrière_, and can return for her.”

“Capital; but how will you get me out of Paris?”

“Oh! as to that, you must leave it to me.”

“I give you absolute power, therefore; take as large an escort as you

like.”

D’Artagnan shook his head.

“It seems to me, however,” said Mazarin, “the safest method.”

“Yes, for you, my lord, but not for the queen; you must leave it to me

and give me the entire direction of the undertaking.”

“Nevertheless——”

“Or find some one else,” continued D’Artagnan, turning his back.

“Oh!” muttered Mazarin, “I do believe he is going off with the diamond!

M. d’Artagnan, my dear M. d’Artagnan,” he called out in a coaxing

voice, “will you answer for everything?”

“I will answer for _nothing_. I will do my best.”

“Well, then, let us go—I must trust to you.”

“It is very fortunate,” said D’Artagnan to himself.

“You will be here at half-past nine.”

“And I shall find your eminence ready?”

“Certainly, quite ready.”

“Well, then, it is a settled thing; and now, my lord, will you obtain

for me an audience with the queen?”

“For what purpose?”

“I wish to receive her majesty’s commands from her own lips.”

“She desired me to give them to you.”

“She may have forgotten something.”

“You really wish to see her?”

“It is indispensable, my lord.”

Mazarin hesitated for one instant, but D’Artagnan was firm.

“Come, then,” said the minister; “I will conduct you to her, but

remember, not one word of our conversation.”

“What has passed between us concerns ourselves alone, my lord,” replied

D’Artagnan.

“Swear to be mute.”

“I never swear, my lord, I say yes or no; and, as I am a gentleman, I

keep my word.”

“Come, then, I see that I must trust unreservedly to you.”

“Believe me, my lord, it will be your best plan.”

“Come,” said Mazarin, conducting D’Artagnan into the queen’s oratory

and desiring him to wait there. He did not wait long, for in five

minutes the queen entered in full gala costume. Thus dressed she

scarcely appeared thirty-five years of age. She was still exceedingly

handsome.

“It is you, Monsieur D’Artagnan,” she said, smiling graciously; “I

thank you for having insisted on seeing me.”

“I ought to ask your majesty’s pardon, but I wished to receive your

commands from your own mouth.”

“Do you accept the commission which I have intrusted to you?”

“With gratitude.”

“Very well, be here at midnight.”

“I will not fail.”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” continued the queen, “I know your

disinterestedness too well to speak of my own gratitude at such a

moment, but I swear to you that I shall not forget this second service

as I forgot the first.”

“Your majesty is free to forget or to remember, as it pleases you; and

I know not what you mean,” said D’Artagnan, bowing.

“Go, sir,” said the queen, with her most bewitching smile, “go and

return at midnight.”

And D’Artagnan retired, but as he passed out he glanced at the curtain

through which the queen had entered and at the bottom of the tapestry

he remarked the tip of a velvet slipper.

“Good,” thought he; “Mazarin has been listening to discover whether I

betrayed him. In truth, that Italian puppet does not deserve the

services of an honest man.”

D’Artagnan was not less exact to his appointment and at half-past nine

o’clock he entered the ante-room.

He found the cardinal dressed as an officer, and he looked very well in

that costume, which, as we have already said, he wore elegantly; only

he was very pale and trembled slightly.

“Quite alone?” he asked.

“Yes, my lord.”

“And that worthy Monsieur du Vallon, are we not to enjoy his society?”

“Certainly, my lord; he is waiting in his carriage at the gate of the

garden of the Palais Royal.”

“And we start in his carriage, then?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And with us no other escort but you two?”

“Is it not enough? One of us would suffice.”

“Really, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the cardinal, “your

coolness startles me.”

“I should have thought, on the contrary, that it ought to have inspired

you with confidence.”

“And Bernouin—do I not take him with me?”

“There is no room for him, he will rejoin your eminence.”

“Let us go,” said Mazarin, “since everything must be done as you wish.”

“My lord, there is time to draw back,” said D’Artagnan, “and your

eminence is perfectly free.”

“Not at all, not at all,” said Mazarin; “let us be off.”

And so they descended the private stair, Mazarin leaning on the arm of

D’Artagnan a hand the musketeer felt trembling. At last, after crossing

the courts of the Palais Royal, where there still remained some of the

conveyances of late guests, they entered the garden and reached the

little gate. Mazarin attempted to open it by a key which he took from

his pocket, but with such shaking fingers that he could not find the

keyhole.

“Give it to me,” said D’Artagnan, who when the gate was open deposited

the key in his pocket, reckoning upon returning by that gate.

The steps were already down and the door open. Mousqueton stood at the

door and Porthos was inside the carriage.

“Mount, my lord,” said D’Artagnan to Mazarin, who sprang into the

carriage without waiting for a second bidding. D’Artagnan followed him,

and Mousqueton, having closed the door, mounted behind the carriage

with many groans. He had made some difficulties about going, under

pretext that he still suffered from his wound, but D’Artagnan had said

to him:

“Remain if you like, my dear Monsieur Mouston, but I warn you that

Paris will be burnt down to-night;” upon which Mousqueton had declared,

without asking anything further, that he was ready to follow his master

and Monsieur d’Artagnan to the end of the world.

The carriage started at a measured pace, without betraying by the

slightest sign that it contained people in a hurry. The cardinal wiped

his forehead with his handkerchief and looked around him. On his left

was Porthos, whilst D’Artagnan was on his right; each guarded a door

and served as a rampart to him on either side. Before him, on the front

seat, lay two pairs of pistols—one in front of Porthos and the other of

D’Artagnan. About a hundred paces from the Palais Royal a patrol

stopped the carriage.

“Who goes?” asked the captain.

“Mazarin!” replied D’Artagnan, bursting into a laugh. The cardinal’s

hair stood on end. But the joke appeared an excellent one to the

citizens, who, seeing the conveyance without escort and unarmed, would

never have believed in the possibility of so great an imprudence.

“A good journey to ye,” they cried, allowing it to pass.

“Hem!” said D’Artagnan, “what does my lord think of that reply?”

“Man of talent!” cried Mazarin.

“In truth,” said Porthos, “I understand; but now——”

About the middle of the Rue des Petits Champs they were stopped by a

second patrol.

“Who goes there?” inquired the captain of the patrol.

“Keep back, my lord,” said D’Artagnan. And Mazarin buried himself so

far behind the two friends that he disappeared, completely hidden

between them.

“Who goes there?” cried the same voice, impatiently whilst D’Artagnan

perceived that they had rushed to the horses’ heads. But putting his

head out of the carriage:

“Eh! Planchet,” said he.

The chief approached, and it was indeed Planchet; D’Artagnan had

recognized the voice of his old servant.

“How, sir!” said Planchet, “is it you?”

“Eh! _mon Dieu!_ yes, my good friend, this worthy Porthos has just

received a sword wound and I am taking him to his country house at

Saint Cloud.”

“Oh! really,” said Planchet.

“Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, “if you can still speak, say a word, my

dear Porthos, to this good Planchet.”

“Planchet, my friend,” said Porthos, in a melancholy voice, “I am very

ill; should you meet a doctor you will do me a favor by sending him to

me.”

“Oh! good Heaven,” said Planchet, “what a misfortune! and how did it

happen?”

“I will tell you all about it,” replied Mousqueton.

Porthos uttered a deep groan.

“Make way for us, Planchet,” said D’Artagnan in a whisper to him, “or

he will not arrive alive; the lungs are attacked, my friend.”

Planchet shook his head with the air of a man who says, “In that case

things look ill.” Then he exclaimed, turning to his men:

“Let them pass; they are friends.”

The carriage resumed its course, and Mazarin, who had held his breath,

ventured to breathe again.

“_Bricconi!_” muttered he.

A few steps in advance of the gate of Saint Honoré they met a third

troop; this latter party was composed of ill-looking fellows, who

resembled bandits more than anything else; they were the men of the

beggar of Saint Eustache.

“Attention, Porthos!” cried D’Artagnan.

Porthos placed his hand on the pistols.

“What is it?” asked Mazarin.

“My lord, I think we are in bad company.”

A man advanced to the door with a kind of scythe in his hand. “_Qui

vive?_” he asked.

“Eh, rascal!” said D’Artagnan, “do you not recognize his highness the

prince’s carriage?”

“Prince or not,” said the man, “open. We are here to guard the gate,

and no one whom we do not know shall pass.”

“What is to be done?” said Porthos.

“_Pardieu!_ pass,” replied D’Artagnan.

“But _how?_” asked Mazarin.

“Through or over; coachman, gallop on.”

The coachman raised his whip.

“Not a step further,” said the man, who appeared to be the captain, “or

I will hamstring your horses.”

“_Peste!_” said Porthos, “it would be a pity; animals which cost me a

hundred pistoles each.”

“I will pay you two hundred for them,” said Mazarin.

“Yes, but when once they are hamstrung, our necks will be strung next.”

“If one of them comes to my side,” asked Porthos, “must I kill him?”

“Yes, by a blow of your fist, if you can; we will not fire but at the

last extremity.”

“I can do it,” said Porthos.

“Come and open, then!” cried D’Artagnan to the man with the scythe,

taking one of the pistols up by the muzzle and preparing to strike with

the handle. And as the man approached, D’Artagnan, in order to have

more freedom for his actions, leaned half out of the door; his eyes

were fixed upon those of the mendicant, which were lighted up by a

lantern. Without doubt he recognized D’Artagnan, for he became deadly

pale; doubtless the musketeer knew him, for his hair stood up on his

head.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan!” he cried, falling back a step; “it is Monsieur

d’Artagnan! _let him pass_.”

D’Artagnan was perhaps about to reply, when a blow, similar to that of

a mallet falling on the head of an ox, was heard. The noise was caused

by Porthos, who had just knocked down his man.

D’Artagnan turned around and saw the unfortunate man upon his back

about four paces off.

“’Sdeath!” cried he to the coachman. “Spur your horses! whip! get on!”

The coachman bestowed a heavy blow of the whip upon his horses; the

noble animals bounded forward; then cries of men who were knocked down

were heard; then a double concussion was felt, and two of the wheels

seemed to pass over a round and flexible body. There was a moment’s

silence, then the carriage cleared the gate.

“To Cours la Reine!” cried D’Artagnan to the coachman; then turning to

Mazarin he said, “Now, my lord, you can say five _paters_ and five

_aves_, in thanks to Heaven for your deliverance. You are safe—you are

free.”

Mazarin replied only by a groan; he could not believe in such a

miracle. Five minutes later the carriage stopped, having reached Cours

la Reine.

“Is my lord pleased with his escort?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Enchanted, monsieur,” said Mazarin, venturing his head out of one of

the windows; “and now do as much for the queen.”

“It will not be so difficult,” replied D’Artagnan, springing to the

ground. “Monsieur du Vallon, I commend his eminence to your care.”

“Be quite at ease,” said Porthos, holding out his hand, which

D’Artagnan took and shook in his.

“Oh!” cried Porthos, as if in pain.

D’Artagnan looked with surprise at his friend.

“What is the matter, then?” he asked.

“I think I have sprained my wrist,’ said Porthos.

“The devil! why, you strike like a blind or a deaf man.”

“It was necessary; my man was going to fire a pistol at me; but you—how

did you get rid of yours?”

“Oh, mine,” replied D’Artagnan, “was not a man.”

“What was it then?”

“It was an apparition.”

“And——”

“I charmed it away.”

Without further explanation D’Artagnan took the pistols which were upon

the front seat, placed them in his belt, wrapped himself in his cloak,

and not wishing to enter by the same gate as that through which they

had left, he took his way toward the Richelieu gate.

Chapter LII.

The Carriage of Monsieur le Coadjuteur.

Instead of returning, then, by the Saint Honoré gate, D’Artagnan, who

had time before him, walked around and re-entered by the Porte

Richelieu. He was approached to be examined, and when it was discovered

by his plumed hat and his laced coat, that he was an officer of the

musketeers, he was surrounded, with the intention of making him cry,

“Down with Mazarin!” The demonstration did not fail to make him uneasy

at first; but when he discovered what it meant, he shouted it in such a

voice that even the most exacting were satisfied. He walked down the

Rue Richelieu, meditating how he should carry off the queen in her

turn, for to take her in a carriage bearing the arms of France was not

to be thought of, when he perceived an equipage standing at the door of

the hotel belonging to Madame de Guéménée.

He was struck by a sudden idea.

“Ah, _pardieu!_” he exclaimed; “that would be fair play.”

And approaching the carriage, he examined the arms on the panels and

the livery of the coachman on his box. This scrutiny was so much the

more easy, the coachman being sound asleep.

“It is, in truth, monsieur le coadjuteur’s carriage,” said D’Artagnan;

“upon my honor I begin to think that Heaven favors us.”

He mounted noiselessly into the chariot and pulled the silk cord which

was attached to the coachman’s little finger.

“To the Palais Royal,” he called out.

The coachman awoke with a start and drove off in the direction he was

desired, never doubting but that the order had come from his master.

The porter at the palace was about to close the gates, but seeing such

a handsome equipage he fancied that it was some visit of importance and

the carriage was allowed to pass and to stop beneath the porch. It was

then only the coachman perceived the grooms were not behind the

vehicle; he fancied monsieur le coadjuteur had sent them back, and

without dropping the reins he sprang from his box to open the door.

D’Artagnan, in his turn, sprang to the ground, and just at the moment

when the coachman, alarmed at not seeing his master, fell back a step,

he seized him by his collar with the left, whilst with the right hand

he placed the muzzle of a pistol at his breast.

“Pronounce one single word,” muttered D’Artagnan, “and you are a dead

man.”