“Your eminence may be perfectly easy,” replied D’Artagnan; “they will not touch a hair of your head.”

“Deuce take it!” he thought to himself, “how can I take care of both?  Ah! plague on’t, I will guard the king and Porthos shall guard the cardinal.”

This arrangement pleased every one.  The queen had confidence in the courage of D’Artagnan, which she knew, and the cardinal in the strength of Porthos, which he had experienced.

The royal procession set out for Paris.  Guitant and Comminges, at the head of the guards, marched first; then came the royal carriage, with D’Artagnan on one side, Porthos on the other; then the musketeers, for two and twenty years staunch friends of D’Artagnan.  During twenty he had been lieutenant, their captain since the night before.

The cortege proceeded to Notre Dame, where a Te Deum was chanted.  All Paris were in the streets.  The Swiss were drawn up along the road, but as the road was long, they were placed at six or eight feet distant from each other and one deep only.  This force was therefore wholly insufficient, and from time to time the line was broken through by the people and was formed again with difficulty.  Whenever this occurred, although it proceeded only from goodwill and a desire to see the king and queen, Anne looked at D’Artagnan anxiously.

Mazarin, who had dispensed a thousand louis to make the people cry “Long live Mazarin,” and who had accordingly no confidence in acclamations bought at twenty pistoles each, kept one eye on Porthos; but that gigantic body-guard replied to the look with his great bass voice, “Be tranquil, my lord,” and Mazarin became more and more composed.

At the Palais Royal, the crowd, which had flowed in from the adjacent street was still greater; like an impetuous mob, a wave of human beings came to meet the carriage and rolled tumultuously into the Rue Saint Honore.

When the procession reached the palace, loud cries of “Long live their majesties!” resounded.  Mazarin leaned out of the window.  One or two shouts of “Long live the cardinal” saluted his shadow; but instantly hisses and yells stifled them remorselessly.  Mazarin turned pale and shrank back in the coach.

“Low-born fellows!” ejaculated Porthos.

D’Artagnan said nothing, but twirled his mustache with a peculiar gesture which showed that his fine Gascon humor was awake.

Anne of Austria bent down and whispered in the young king’s ear: 

“Say something gracious to Monsieur d’Artagnan, my son.”

The young king leaned toward the door.

“I have not said good-morning to you, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” he said; “nevertheless, I have remarked you.  It was you who were behind my bed-curtains that night the Parisians wished to see me asleep.”

“And if the king permits me,” returned the Gascon, “I shall be near him always when there is danger to be encountered.”