It has often happened that the same event which causes tears to flow in the palace of kings has spread joy without, for the people ever suppose that happiness reigns at festivals.  There were five days’ rejoicings for the return of the minister, and every evening under the windows of the Palais-Cardinal and those of the Louvre pressed the people of Paris.  The late disturbances had given them a taste for public movements.  They rushed from one street to another with a curiosity at times insulting and hostile, sometimes walking in silent procession, sometimes sending forth loud peals of laughter or prolonged yells, of which no one understood the meaning.  Bands of young men fought in the streets and danced in rounds in the squares, as if manifesting some secret hope of pleasure and some insensate joy, grievous to the upright heart.

It was remarkable that profound silence prevailed exactly in those places where the minister had ordered rejoicings, and that the people passed disdainfully before the illuminated facade of his palace.  If some voices were raised, it was to read aloud in a sneering tone the legends and inscriptions with which the idiot flattery of some obscure writers had surrounded the portraits of the minister.  One of these pictures was guarded by arquebusiers, who, however, could not preserve it from the stones which were thrown at it from a distance by unseen hands.  It represented the Cardinal-Generalissimo wearing a casque surrounded by laurels.  Above it was inscribed: 

     “Grand Duc:  c’est justement que la France t’honore;
     Ainsi que le dieu Mars dans Paris on t’adore.”

These fine phrases did not persuade the people that they were happy.  They no more adored the Cardinal than they did the god Mars, but they accepted his fetes because they served as a covering for disorder.  All Paris was in an uproar.  Men with long beards, carrying torches, measures of wine, and two drinking-cups, which they knocked together with a great noise, went along, arm in arm, shouting in chorus with rude voices an old round of the League: 

“Reprenons la danse;
Allons, c’est assez. 
Le printemps commence;
Les rois sont passes.

“Prenons quelque treve;
Nous sommes lasses. 
Les rois de la feve
Nous ont harasses.

“Allons, Jean du Mayne,
Les rois sont passes.

“Les rois de la feve
Nous ont harasses. 
Allons, Jean du Mayne,
Les rois sont passes.”

The frightful bands who howled forth these words traversed the Quais and the Pont-Neuf, squeezing against the high houses, which then covered the latter, the peaceful citizens who were led there by simple curiosity.  Two young men, wrapped in cloaks, thus thrown one against the other, recognized each other by the light of a torch placed at the foot of the statue of Henri IV, which had been lately raised.