nd 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.

49. 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 Conde, a prince of the blood royal, arrested by my
mother-in-law, Maria de Medicis; they saw my mother-in-law, their former
regent, expelled by the cardinal; they saw Monsieur de Vendome, 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 Louvieres 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