Now that the diabolical procession is in the arena destined for its spectacle, and is arranging its sanguinary representation, let us see what Cinq-Mars had been doing amid the agitated throng.  He was naturally endowed with great tact, and he felt that it would be no easy matter for him to attain his object of seeing the Abbe Quillet, at a time when public excitement was at its height.  He therefore remained on horseback with his four servants in a small, dark street that led into the main thoroughfare, whence he could see all that passed.  No one at first paid any attention to him; but when public curiosity had no other aliment, he became an object of general interest.  Weary of so many strange scenes, the inhabitants looked upon him with some exasperation, and whispered to one another, asking whether this was another exorcist come among them.  Feeling that it was time to take a decided course, he advanced with his attendants, hat in hand, toward the group in black of whom we have spoken, and addressing him who appeared its chief member, said, “Monsieur, where can I find Monsieur l’Abbe Quillet?”

At this name, all regarded him with an air of terror, as if he had pronounced that of Lucifer.  Yet no anger was shown; on the contrary, it seemed that the question had favorably changed for him the minds of all who heard him.  Moreover, chance had served him well in his choice; the Comte du Lude came up to his horse, and saluting him, said, “Dismount, Monsieur, and I will give you some useful information concerning him.”

After speaking a while in whispers, the two gentlemen separated with all the ceremonious courtesy of the time.  Cinq-Mars remounted his black horse, and passing through numerous narrow streets, was soon out of the crowd with his retinue.

“How happy I am!” he soliloquized, as he went his way; “I shall, at all events, for a moment see the good and kind clergyman who brought me up; even now I recall his features, his calm air, his voice so full of gentleness.”

As these tender thoughts filled his mind, he found himself in the small, dark street which had been indicated to him; it was so narrow that the knee-pieces of his boots touched the wall on each side.  At the end of the street he came to a one-storied wooden house, and in his eagerness knocked at the door with repeated strokes.

“Who is there?” cried a furious voice within; and at the same moment, the door opening revealed a little short, fat man, with a very red face, dressed in black, with a large white ruff, and riding-boots which engulfed his short legs in their vast depths.  In his hands were a pair of horse-pistols.

“I will sell my life dearly!” he cried; “and—­”

“Softly, Abbe, softly,” said his pupil, taking his arm; “we are friends.”