“It seems that some days since Councillor Bachaumont
remarked at the palace that rebels and agitators reminded
him of schoolboys slinging — qui frondent — stones from
the moats round Paris, young urchins who run off the moment
the constable appears, only to return to their diversion the
instant his back is turned. So they have picked up the word
and the insurrectionists are called `Frondeurs,’ and
yesterday every article sold was `a la Fronde;’ bread `a la
Fronde,’ hats `a la Fronde,’ to say nothing of gloves,
pocket-handkerchiefs, and fans; but listen —- ”
At that moment a window opened and a man began to sing:
“A tempest from the Fronde
Did blow to-day:
I think ’twill blow
Sieur Mazarin away.”
“Insolent wretch!” cried Guitant.
“My lord,” said Comminges, who, irritated by his wounds,
wished for revenge and longed to give back blow for blow,
“shall I fire off a ball to punish that jester, and to warn
him not to sing so much out of tune in the future?”
And as he spoke he put his hand on the holster of his
uncle’s saddle-bow.
“Certainly not! certainly not,” exclaimed Mazarin. “Diavolo!
my dear friend, you are going to spoil everything —
everything is going on famously. I know the French as well
as if I had made them myself. They sing — let them pay the
piper. During the Ligue, about which Guitant was speaking
just now, the people chanted nothing except the mass, so
everything went to destruction. Come, Guitant, come along,
and let’s see if they keep watch at the Quinze-Vingts as at
the Barriere des Sergens.”
And waving his hand to Comminges he rejoined D’Artagnan, who
instantly put himself at the head of his troop, followed by
the cardinal, Guitant and the rest of the escort.
“Just so,” muttered Comminges, looking after Mazarin. “True,
I forgot; provided he can get money out of the people, that
is all he wants.”
The street of Saint Honore, when the cardinal and his party
Page 14
Dumas, Alexandre – Twenty Years After
passed through it, was crowded by an assemblage who,
standing in groups, discussed the edicts of that memorable
day. They pitied the young king, who was unconsciously
ruining his country, and threw all the odium of his
proceedings on Mazarin. Addresses to the Duke of Orleans and
to Conde were suggested. Blancmesnil and Broussel seemed in
the highest favor.
D’Artagnan passed through the very midst of this
discontented mob just as if his horse and he had been made
of iron. Mazarin and Guitant conversed together in whispers.
The musketeers, who had already discovered who Mazarin was,
followed in profound silence. In the street of Saint
Thomas-du-Louvre they stopped at the barrier distinguished
by the name of Quinze-Vingts. Here Guitant spoke to one of
the subalterns, asking how matters were progressing.
“Ah, captain!” said the officer, “everything is quiet
hereabout — if I did not know that something is going on in
yonder house!”
And he pointed to a magnificent hotel situated on the very
spot whereon the Vaudeville now stands.
“In that hotel? it is the Hotel Rambouillet,” cried Guitant.
“I really don’t know what hotel it is; all I do know is that
I observed some suspicious looking people go in there —- ”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Guitant, with a burst of laughter;
“those men must be poets.”
“Come, Guitant, speak, if you please, respectfully of these
gentlemen,” said Mazarin; “don’t you know that I was in my
youth a poet? I wrote verses in the style of Benserade —-
”
“You, my lord?”
“Yes, I; shall I repeat to you some of my verses?”
“Just as you please, my lord. I do not understand Italian.”
“Yes, but you understand French,” and Mazarin laid his hand
upon Guitant’s shoulder. “My good, my brave Guitant,
whatsoever command I may give you in that language — in
French — whatever I may order you to do, will you not
perform it?”
“Certainly. I have already answered that question in the
affirmative; but that command must come from the queen
herself.”
“Yes! ah yes!” Mazarin bit his lips as he spoke; “I know
your devotion to her majesty.”
“I have been a captain in the queen’s guards for twenty