“What! still at Paris?” said Corneille to Milton.  “I thought you were in London.”

“Hear you the people, Monsieur?  Do you hear them?  What is this ominous chorus,

     ’Les rois sont passes’?”

“That is nothing, Monsieur.  Listen to their conversation.”

“The parliament is dead,” said one of the men; “the nobles are dead.  Let us dance; we are the masters.  The old Cardinal is dying.  There is no longer any but the King and ourselves.”

“Do you hear that drunken wretch, Monsieur?” asked Corneille.  “All our epoch is in those words of his.”

“What! is this the work of the minister who is called great among you, and even by other nations?  I do not understand him.”

“I will explain the matter to you presently,” answered Corneille.  “But first listen to the concluding part of this letter, which I received to-day.  Draw near this light under the statue of the late King.  We are alone.  The crowd has passed.  Listen!

“It was by one of those unforeseen circumstances which prevent the accomplishment of the noblest enterprises that we were not able to save mm. de Cinq-Mars and De Thou.  We might have foreseen that, prepared for death by long meditation, they would themselves refuse our aid; but this idea did not occur to any of us.  In the precipitation of our measures, we also committed the fault of dispersing ourselves too much in the crowd, so that we could not take a sudden resolution.  I was unfortunately stationed near the scaffold; and I saw our unfortunate friends advance to the foot of it, supporting the poor Abbe Quillet, who was destined to behold the death of the pupil whose birth he had witnessed.  He sobbed aloud, and had strength enough only to kiss the hands of the two friends.  We all advanced, ready to throw ourselves upon the guards at the announced signal; but I saw with grief M. de Cinq-Mars cast his hat from him with an air of disdain.  Our movement had been observed, and the Catalonian guard was doubled round the scaffold.  I could see no more; but I heard much weeping around me.  After the three usual blasts of the trumpet, the recorder of Lyons, on horseback at a little distance from the scaffold, read the sentence of death, to which neither of the prisoners listened.  M. de Thou said to M. de Cinq-Mars: 

   “’Well, dear friend, which shall die first?  Do you remember Saint-
   Gervais and Saint-Protais?’

   “‘Which you think best,’ answered Cinq-Mars.

   “The second confessor, addressing M. de Thou, said, ’You are the
   elder.’

   “‘True,’ said M. de Thou; and, turning to M. le Grand, ’You are the
   most generous; you will show me the way to the glory of heaven.’

   “‘Alas!’ said Cinq-Mars; ’I have opened to you that of the
   precipice; but let us meet death nobly, and we shall revel in the
   glory and happiness of heaven!’