“This, Monsieur,” replied Fournier, “is very different from the affair at Loudun.  There the people only rose, without actually revolting; it was the sensible and estimable part of the populace, indignant at an assassination, and not heated by wine and money.  It was a cry raised against an executioner—­a cry of which one could honorably be the organ—­and not these howlings of factious hypocrisy, of a mass of unknown people, the dregs of the mud and sewers of Paris.  I confess that I am very tired of what I see; and I have come to entreat you to speak about it to Monsieur le Grand.”

De Thou was very much embarrassed during this conversation, and sought in vain to understand what Cinq-Mars could have to do with the people, who appeared to him merely merrymaking; on the other hand, he persisted in not owning his ignorance.  It was, however, complete; for the last time he had seen his friend, he had spoken only of the King’s horses and stables, of hawking, and of the importance of the King’s huntsmen in the affairs of the State, which did not seem to announce vast projects in which the people could take a part.  He at last timidly ventured to say: 

“Messieurs, I promise to do your commission; meanwhile, I offer you my table and beds as long as you please.  But to give my advice in this matter is very difficult.  By the way, it was not the fete of Sainte-Barbe I saw this morning?”

“The Sainte-Barbe!” said Fournier.

“The Sainte-Barbe!” echoed Du Lude.  “They burned powder.”

“Oh, yes, yes! that is what Monsieur de Thou means,” said Fournier, laughing; “very good, very good indeed!  Yes, I think to-day is Sainte-Barbe.”

De Thou was now altogether confused and reduced to silence; as for the others, seeing that they did not understand him, nor he them, they had recourse to silence.

They were sitting thus mute, when the door opened to admit the old tutor of Cinq-Mars, the Abbe Quillet, who entered, limping slightly.  He looked very gloomy, retaining none of his former gayety in his air or language; but his look was still animated, and his speech energetic.

“Pardon me, my dear De Thou, that I so early disturb you in your occupations; it is strange, is it not, in a gouty invalid?  Ah, time advances; two years ago I did not limp.  I was, on the contrary, nimble enough at the time of my journey to Italy; but then fear gives legs as well as wings.”

Then, retiring into the recess of a window, he signed De Thou to come to him.

“I need hardly remind you, my friend, who are in their secrets, that I affianced them a fortnight ago, as they have told you.”

“Ah, indeed!  Whom?” exclaimed poor De Thou, fallen from the Charybdis into the Scylla of astonishment.

“Come, come, don’t affect surprise; you know very well whom,” continued the Abbe.  “But, faith, I fear I have been too complaisant with them, though these two children are really interesting in their love.  I fear for him more than for her; I doubt not he is acting very foolishly, judging from the disturbance this morning.  We must consult together about it.”