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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? Marechal 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!”
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“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
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