“He’s a schismatic! a monster!” cried several voices.

“His progress, then, is apparent, gentlemen.  He is ready to seize both temporal and spiritual power.  He has little by little fortified himself against the King in the strongest towns of France—­seized the mouths of the principal rivers, the best ports of the ocean, the salt-pits, and all the securities of the kingdom.  It is the King, then, whom we must deliver from this oppression.  ‘Le roi et la paix!’ shall be our cry.  The rest must be left to Providence.”

Cinq-Mars greatly astonished the assembly, and De Thou himself, by this address.  No one had ever before heard him speak so long together, not even in fireside conversation; and he had never by a single word shown the least aptitude for understanding public affairs.  He had, on the contrary, affected the greatest indifference on the subject, even in the eyes of those whom he was molding to his projects, merely manifesting a virtuous indignation at the violence of the minister, but affecting not to put forward any of his own ideas, in order not to suggest personal ambition as the aim of his labors.  The confidence given to him rested on his favor with the king and his personal bravery.  The surprise of all present was therefore such as to cause a momentary silence.  It was soon broken by all the transports of Frenchmen, young or old, when fighting of whatever kind is held out to them.

Among those who came forward to press the hand of the young party leader, the Abbe de Gondi jumped about like a kid.

“I have already enrolled my regiment!” he cried.  “I have some superb fellows!” Then, addressing Marion de Lorme, “Parbleu!  Mademoiselle, I will wear your colors—­your gray ribbon, and your order of the Allumette.  The device is charming—­

     ‘Nous ne brullons que pour bruller les autres.’

And I wish you could see all the fine things we shall do if we are fortunate enough to come to blows.”

The fair Marion, who did not like him, began to talk over his head to M. de Thou—­a mortification which always exasperated the little Abbe, who abruptly left her, walking as tall as he could, and scornfully twisting his moustache.

All at once a sudden silence took possession of the assembly.  A rolled paper had struck the ceiling and fallen at the feet of Cinq-Mars.  He picked it up and unrolled it, after having looked eagerly around him.  He sought in vain to divine whence it came; all those who advanced had only astonishment and intense curiosity depicted in their faces.

“Here is my name wrongly written,” he said coldly.

“A Cinq MARCS,

CENTURIE de Nostradamus.

Quand bonnet rouge passera par la fenetre,
A quarante onces on coupera tete,
Et tout finira.”

[This punning prediction was made public three months before the,
conspiracy.]

“There is a traitor among us, gentlemen,” he said, throwing away the paper.  “But no matter.  We are not men to be frightened by his sanguinary jests.”