CHAPTER II.

A NIGHT PATROL.

Ten minutes afterwards Mazarin and his party were traversing the Rue des
Bons Enfans, behind the theatre built by Richelieu expressly for the
play of _Mirame_, and in which Mazarin–a greater lover of music than of
literature–had introduced into France the first opera that was ever
acted in that country.

The aspect of the town denoted the greatest agitation. Numerous groups
paraded the streets; and, whatever d’Artagnan might think of it, it was
obvious that the citizens had, for the night, laid aside their usual
forbearance, in order to assume a warlike aspect. From time to time
noises came from the direction of the public markets. The report of
fire-arms was heard near the Rue St. Denis, and now and again church
bells began to ring indiscriminately, and at the caprice of the
populace.

D’Artagnan, meantime, pursued his way with the indifference of a man
upon whom such acts of folly made no impression. When one of these
groups blocked up the middle of the road, he pushed on his horse without
giving a note of warning; and, as if those assembled, whether rebels or
not, knew the kind of man they had to deal with, they gave way, and
allowed the patrol to pass on. The Cardinal envied his composure, which
he ascribed to the habit of encountering danger. On approaching an
outpost near the Barrière des Sergens, the sentinel cried out, “Who’s
there?” and d’Artagnan answered–having first asked the word of the
Cardinal–“Louis and Recroy.” After which he inquired if Lieutenant
Comminges were not the commanding officer at the outpost. The soldier
replied by pointing out to him an officer who was conversing, on foot,
with his hand upon the neck of a horse on which the individual to whom
he was talking sat. Here was the officer whom d’Artagnan was seeking.

“Here is Monsieur Comminges,” said d’Artagnan, returning to the
Cardinal. The Cardinal directed his horse towards them, while d’Artagnan
discreetly retired. It was, however, evident that the Cardinal was
recognised by both Comminges and the other officer on horseback.

“Bravo, Guitant,” cried the Cardinal to the horseman; “I see plainly,
that in spite of your sixty-four years, you are still the same man,
active and zealous. What were you saying to the young man?”

“My lord,” replied Guitant, “I was remarking that we live in strange
times, and that to-day’s events are very like those in the days of the
Ligue, of which I heard so much in my youth. Are you aware that the mob
have even suggested throwing up barricades in the Rue Saint Denis and
the Rue Saint Antoine?”

“And what was Comminges saying to you in reply, dear Guitant?”

“My lord,” said Comminges, “I answered that to compose a Ligue, only one
ingredient was wanting–in my opinion an essential one–a Duc de Guise.
Besides, no one ever does the same thing twice over.”

“No, but they mean to make a Fronde, as they call it,” said Guitant.

“And what is a Fronde?” inquired the Cardinal.

“It is the name which the discontented give to their party, my lord.”

“And what is the origin of this name?”

“It seems that some days since, Councillor Backaumont remarked at the
palace that rebels and agitators reminded him of schoolboys slinging
stones from the moats round Paris–young urchins who run off the moment
the constable appears, only to return to their mischief the instant that
his back is turned. So they have picked up the word, and the
insurrectionists are called ‘Frondeurs’; and yesterday every article
sold was ‘à la Fronde’; bread ‘à la Fronde,’ hats ‘à la Fronde,’ to say
nothing of gloves, pocket-handkerchiefs, and fans–but listen—-“

At that moment a window opened, and a man started singing–

A breeze from the Fronde
Blew to-day;
I think that it blows
Against Mazarin.

“Insolent rascal!” cried Guitant.

“My lord,” said Comminges, who, smarting from 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 future?”

And, as he spoke, he put his hand on the holster of his horse’s
saddle-bow.

“No, no!” exclaimed Mazarin. “_Diavola_! my dear friend, you are going
to spoil everything–everything is going on famously. I understand the
French as well as if I had made them myself from first to last. They
sing–let them pay the piper. During the Ligue, about which Guitant was
speaking just now, the people sang 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 Barrière 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 Honoré when the Cardinal and his party 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 Orléans and to
Condé were suggested. Blancemesnil and Broussel seemed in the highest
favour.

D’Artagnan passed through the very midst of this discontented multitude,
just as if his horse and he had been made of steel. Mazarin and Guitant
conversed in a low tone. The musketeers, who had already discovered who
Mazarin was, followed in strict silence. In the street of Saint
Thomas-du-Louvre, they stopped at that barrier which was distinguished
by the name of Quinze-Vingts. Here Guitant spoke to one of the
subalterns, and asked him how matters went on.

“Ah, captain!” said the officer, “everything is quiet hereabouts–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 Hôtel 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 the—-“

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Guitant, bursting out laughing. “Why, they are
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 Beuserade—-“

“You, my lord?”

“Yes, I–shall I repeat to you some of the 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 do it?”

“Without doubt, my lord. 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 years,” was the
reply.

D’Artagnan, in the meantime, had taken the head of his detachment
without a word, and with that ready and profound obedience which
characterises an old soldier.

He led the way towards the hut of Saint Roche. The Rue Richelieu and the
Rue Villedot were then, owing to their vicinity to the ramparts, less
frequented than any others in that direction, for the town was thinly
populated thereabouts. He therefore chose these streets to pass through
in preference to those more crowded.

“Who is in command here?” asked Mazarin.

“Villequier,” said Guitant.

“_Diavolo_! Speak to him yourself, for ever since you were deputed by me
to arrest the Duc de Beaufort, this officer and I have been on bad
terms. He laid claim to that honour as captain of the Royal Guards.”

Guitant accordingly rode forward, and desired the sentinel to call
Monsieur de Villequier.

“Ah! so you are here!” cried the officer, in that ill-natured tone which
was habitual with him; “what the devil are you doing here?”

“I am come to ask if there is anything fresh happening in this part of
the town?”

“What do you mean? People cry out, ‘Long live the king! down with
Mazarin’–that’s nothing new –no, we’ve been used to those acclamations
for some time.”

“And you join in the chorus,” replied Guitant, laughing.

“Faith, I’ve half a mind to do it. In my opinion the people are right:
and cheerfully would I give up five years of my pay–which I am never
paid, by the way–to make the king five years older.”

“Indeed! And pray what is to come to pass assuming the king were five
years older than he is?”

“Why, as soon as ever the king comes of age, he will issue his commands
himself, and ’tis far pleasanter to obey the grandson of Henry IV. than
the grandson of Peter Mazarin. S’death! I would die willingly for the
king; but supposing I happened to be killed on account of Mazarin, as
your nephew was near being to-day, there could be nothing in
Paradise–so well off as I have been in this world–that could console
me for being a martyr.”

“Well, well, Monsieur de Villequier,” here Mazarin interposed, “I shall
take care that the king hears of your loyalty. Come, gentlemen,” he
addressed the troop, “let us return.”

“Stop,” exclaimed Villequier; “so, Mazarin is here! so much the better.
I have been waiting a long time to tell him what I think of him. I’m
obliged to you, Guitant, for the opportunity.”

And turning on his heel, he went off to his post, whistling a tune, then
popular among the party called the “Fronde.”

Mazarin, however, returned, in a pensive mood, towards the Palais Royal.
All that he had heard from these three different men, Comminges,
Guitant, and Villequier, confirmed him in his conviction that in case of
serious tumults there would be no one on his side except the queen: and
then, Anne of Austria had so often deserted her friends, that her
support seemed rather precarious. During the whole of this nocturnal
ride, and the whole time that he was endeavouring to understand the
various characters of Comminges, Guitant, and Villequier, Mazarin was,
in truth, studying more especially one man. This man–who had remained
immovable when menaced by the mob–not a muscle of whose face was
altered either by Mazarin’s witticisms, or by the jests of the
multitude–seemed to the Cardinal a peculiar being, who, having
participated in past events similar to those which were now occurring,
was calculated to cope with those which were on the eve of taking place.

Besides, the name of d’Artagnan was not altogether unknown to Mazarin,
who, although he had not arrived in France before the year 1634, or
1635, that is to say, about eight or nine years after the events which
we have related in _The Three Musketeers_, fancied that he had heard
d’Artagnan’s name mentioned as a man who, in some half-forgotten affair,
had made himself conspicuous as a model of courage, address, and
loyalty.

This idea took such strong possession of the Cardinal’s mind, that he
resolved to know all about d’Artagnan immediately; of course he could
not inquire from d’Artagnan himself who he was, and what had been his
career; he remarked, however, in the course of conversation, that the
lieutenant of musketeers spoke with a Gascon accent. Now the Italians,
and the Gascons are too much alike, and know each other too well, even
to trust to what any one of them may say of himself; so, on reaching the
walls which surrounded the Palais Royal, the Cardinal knocked at the
little door, and after thanking d’Artagnan, and requesting him to wait
in the court of the Palais Royal, he made a sign to Guitant to follow
him in.

“My dear Guitant,” said the Cardinal, leaning, as they walked through
the gardens, on his friend’s arm, “you told me just now that you had
been twenty years in the queen’s service.”

“Yes, it is true; I have,” returned Guitant.

“Now, my dear Guitant, I have often observed that in addition to your
courage, which is indisputable, and to your fidelity, which is
invincible, you possess an admirable memory.”

“You have found that out, have you, my lord? Deuce take it–all the
worse for me!”

“And why so?”

“One of the chief qualities in a courtier is to know when to forget.”

“But you are not a courtier, Guitant. You are a brave soldier, one of
the few remaining veterans of the days of Henry IV.–alas! how few exist
still—-!”

“Plague on it, my lord–have you brought me here to get my horoscope out
of me?”

“No,” returned Mazarin, smiling; “I only brought you here to ask you if
you have taken any particular notice of our Lieutenant of Musketeers?”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan? I do not care to notice him particularly; he’s an
old acquaintance. He’s a Gascon. De Treville knows him, and esteems him
greatly, and de Treville, as you know, is one of the queen’s greatest
friends. As a soldier the man ranks well: he did his duty, and even more
than his duty, at the siege of Rochelle–as well as Suze and Perpignan.”

“But you know, Guitant, we poor ministers often want men with other
qualities besides courage; we want men of talent. Pray was not Monsieur
d’Artagnan, in the time of the Cardinal, mixed up in some intrigue from
which he came out, according to report, rather cleverly?”

“My lord, as to the report you allude to”–Guitant saw that the Cardinal
wished him to speak out–“I know nothing but what the public knows. I
never meddle in intrigues; and if I occasionally become a confidant in
the intrigues of others, I am sure your Eminence will approve of my
keeping them secret.”

Mazarin shook his head.

“Ah!” he said; “some ministers are very fortunate, and find out all that
they wish to know.”

“My lord,” replied Guitant, “such ministers do not weigh men in the same
balance; they get their information on war from the warriors; on
intrigues, from the politician. Consult some politician of the period of
which you speak, and if you pay well for it, you will certainly get to
know what you want.”

Mazarin, with a grimace which he always made when spoken to about
money–“People must be paid–one can’t do otherwise,” he said.

“Does my lord seriously wish me to name any one who was mixed up in the
cabals of that day?”

“By Jupiter!” rejoined Mazarin impatiently, “it’s about an hour ago
since I asked you a question about d’Artagnan, thick-headed as you are.”

“There is one man for whom I can answer, if he will speak out.”

“That’s my concern; I must make him speak.”

“Ah! my lord, ’tis not easy to make people say what they don’t wish to
say.”

“Pooh! patience, we’re coming to it at last. Well, this man. Who is he?”

“The Comte de Rochefort.”

“The Comte de Rochefort!”

“Unfortunately he has disappeared these four or five years, and I don’t
know where he is.”

“_I_ know, Guitant,” said Mazarin.

“Well then, how is it that your Eminence complained just now of want of
information on some points?”

“You think,” resumed Mazarin, “that Rochefort—-“

“He was Cardinal Richelieu’s creature, my lord. I warn you, however, his
services will be expensive. The Cardinal was lavish to his underlings.”

“Yes, yes, Guitant,” said Mazarin; “Richelieu was a great man, a very
great man, but he had that defect. Thanks, Guitant; I shall benefit by
your advice this very evening.”

Here they separated, and bidding adieu to Guitant in the court of the
Palais Royal, Mazarin approached an officer who was walking up and down
within that enclosure.

It was d’Artagnan, who was awaiting him.

“Come hither,” said Mazarin, in his softest voice, “I have an order to
give you.”

D’Artagnan bent low, and following the Cardinal up the private
staircase, soon found himself in the study whence he had first set out.

The Cardinal seated himself before his bureau, and taking a sheet of
paper, wrote some lines upon it, whilst d’Artagnan remained standing,
imperturbable, and without showing either impatience or curiosity. He
was like a military automaton acting (or, rather, obeying the will of
others) upon springs.

The Cardinal folded and sealed the letter.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” he said, “you are to take this despatch to the
Bastille, and to bring back here the person whom it concerns. You must
take a carriage and an escort, and guard the prisoner carefully.”

D’Artagnan took the letter, touched his hat with his hand, turned round
upon his heel, like a drill-sergeant, and, a moment afterwards, was
heard in his dry and monotonous tone, commanding. “Four men and an
escort, a carriage and a horse.” Five minutes afterwards the wheels of
the carriage and the horses’ shoes were heard resounding on the pavement
of the courtyard.