“But,” said De Thou, very gravely, “upon my honor, I do not know what you mean.  Who is acting foolishly?”

“Now, my dear Monsieur, will you still play the mysterious with me?  It is really insulting,” said the worthy man, beginning to be angry.

“No, indeed, I mean it not; whom have you affianced?”

“Again! fie, Monsieur!”

“And what was the disturbance this morning?”

“You are laughing at me!  I take my leave,” said the Abbe, rising.

“I vow that I understand not a word of all that has been told me to-day.  Do you mean Monsieur de Cinq-Mars?”

“Very well, Monsieur, very well! you treat me as a Cardinalist; very well, we part,” said the Abbe Quillet, now altogether furious.  And he snatched up his crutch and quitted the room hastily, without listening to De Thou, who followed him to his carriage, seeking to pacify him, but without effect, because he did not wish to name his friend upon the stairs in the hearing of his servants, and could not explain the matter otherwise.  He had the annoyance of seeing the old Abbe depart, still in a passion; he called out to him amicably, “Tomorrow,” as the coachman drove off, but got no answer.

It was, however, not uselessly that he had descended to the foot of the stairs, for he saw thence hideous groups of the mob returning from the Louvre, and was thus better able to judge of the importance of their movements in the morning; he heard rude voices exclaiming, as in triumph: 

“She showed herself, however, the little Queen!” “Long live the good Duc de Bouillon, who is coming to us!  He has a hundred thousand men with him, all on rafts on the Seine.  The old Cardinal de la Rochelle is dead!  Long live the King!  Long live Monsieur le Grand!”

The cries redoubled at the arrival of a carriage and four, with the royal livery, which stopped at the counsellor’s door, and in which De Thou recognized the equipage of Cinq-Mars; Ambrosio alighted to open the ample curtains, which the carriages of that period had for doors.  The people threw themselves between the carriage-steps and the door of the house, so that Cinq-Mars had an absolute struggle ere he could get out and disengage himself from the market-women, who sought to embrace him, crying: 

“Here you are, then, my sweet, my dear!  Here you are, my pet!  Ah, how handsome he is, the love, with his big collar!  Isn’t he worth more than the other fellow with the white moustache?  Come, my son, bring us out some good wine this morning.”

Henri d’Effiat pressed, blushing deeply the while, his friend’s hand,—­who hastened to have his doors closed.

“This popular favor is a cup one must drink,” said he, as they ascended the stairs.

“It appears to me,” replied De Thou, gravely, “that you drink it even to the very dregs.”

“I will explain all this clamorous affair to you,” answered Cinq-Mars, somewhat embarrassed.  “At present, if you love me, dress yourself to accompany me to the Queen’s toilette.”