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!”

“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.