"Ah, Monsieur Paul," said the lackey, hiding the cast-off clothing in

the closet, "I am that glad to see you safe and sound again!"

"Your own face is welcome, lad. What weather I have seen!" wringing

his mustache and royal. "And Heaven forfend that another such ride

falls my lot." He smiled at the ruddy heap in the fireplace.

What a ride, indeed! For nearly two weeks he had ridden over hills and

mountains, through valleys and gorges, access deep and shallow streams,

sometimes beneath the sun, sometimes beneath the moon or the stars,

sometimes beneath the flying black canopies of midnight storms, always

and ever toward Paris. He had been harried by straggling Spaniards; he

had drawn his sword three times in unavoidable tavern brawls; he had

been robbed of his purse; he had even pawned his signet-ring for a

night's lodging: all because Mazarin had asked a question which only

the pope could answer.

Paris at last!--Paris the fanciful, the illogical, the changeable, the

wholly delightful Paris! He knew his Paris well, did the Chevalier.

He had been absent thirty days, and on the way in from Fontainebleau,

where he had spent the preceding night at the expense of his

signet-ring, he had wondered what changes had taken place among the

exiles and favorites during this time. What if the Grande Mademoiselle

again headed that comic revolution, the Fronde, as in the old days when

she climbed the walls at Orléans and assumed command against the forces

of the king? What if Monsieur de Retz issued orders from the Palais

Royal, using the same-pen with which Mazarin had demanded his

resignation as Archbishop of Paris? In fact, what if Madame de

Longueville, aided by the middle class, had once more taken up quarters

in the Hôtel de Ville? Oh! so many things happened in Paris in thirty

days that the Chevalier would not have been surprised to learn that the

boy Louis had declared to govern his kingdom without the assistance of

ministers, priests, and old women. Ah, that Fronde! Those had been

gallant days, laughable, it is true; but every one seemed to be able to

pluck a feather from the golden goose of fortune. He was eighteen

then, and had followed the royal exodus to Germain.

The Chevalier sighed as he continued to absorb the genial heat of the

water. The captain at the Porte Saint Antoine had told him that the

Grande Mademoiselle was still in exile at Blois, writing lampoons

against the court and particularly against Mazarin; that De Retz was

biting his nails, full of rage and impotence against those fetters

which banishment casts around men of action; that Madame de Longueville

was conducting a love-intrigue in Normandy; and that Louis had to

borrow or beg his pocket-money. Strange as it seemed to the Chevalier,

Paris was unchanged.




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