“It is not my fault,” replied Gondi, in a sullen tone; “these idiots came an hour too late.  Had they arrived in the night, they would not have been seen, which spoils the effect somewhat, to speak the truth (for I grant that daylight is detrimental to them), and we would only have heard the voice of the people ‘Vox populi, vox Dei’.  Nevertheless, no great harm has been done.  They will by their numbers give us the means of escaping without being known, and, after all, our task is ended; we did not wish the death of the sinner.  Chavigny and his men are worthy fellows, whom I love; if he is only slightly wounded, so much the better.  Adieu; I am going to see Monsieur de Bouillon, who has arrived from Italy.”

“Olivier,” said Fontrailles, “go at once to Saint-Germain with Fournier and Ambrosio; I will go and give an account to Monsieur, with Montresor.”

All separated, and disgust accomplished, with these highborn men, what force could not bring about.

Thus ended this fray, likely to bring forth great misfortunes.  No one was killed in it.  The cavaliers, having gained a few scratches and lost a few purses, resumed their route by the side of the carriages along the by-streets; the others escaped, one by one, through the populace they had attracted.  The miserable wretches who composed it, deprived of the chief of the troops, still remained two hours, yelling and screaming until the effect of their wine was gone, and the cold had extinguished at once the fire of their blood and that of their enthusiasm.  At the windows of the houses, on the quay of the city, and along the walls, the thoughtful and genuine people of Paris watched with a sorrowful air and in mournful silence these preludes of disorder; while the various bodies of merchants, dressed in black and preceded by their provosts, walked slowly and courageously through the populace toward the Palais de justice, where the parliament was to assemble, to make complaint of these terrible nocturnal scenes.

The apartments of Gaston d’Orleans were in great confusion.  This Prince occupied the wing of the Louvre parallel with the Tuileries; and his windows looked into the court on one side, and on the other over a mass of little houses and narrow streets which almost entirely covered the place.  He had risen precipitately, awakened suddenly by the report of the firearms, had thrust his feet into large square-toed slippers with high heels, and, wrapped in a large silk dressing-gown, covered with golden ornaments embroidered in relief, walked to and fro in his bedroom, sending every minute a fresh lackey to see what was going on, and ordering them immediately to go for the Abbe de la Riviere, his general counsellor; but he was unfortunately out of Paris.  At every pistol-shot this timid Prince rushed to the windows, without seeing anything but some flambeaux, which were carried quickly along.  It was in vain he was told that the cries he heard were in his favor; he did not cease to walk up and down the apartments, in the greatest disorder-his long black hair dishevelled, and his blue eyes open and enlarged by disquiet and terror.  He was still thus when Montresor and Fontrailles at length arrived and found him beating his breast, and repeating a thousand times, “Mea culpa, mea culpa!”