ceived 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