"He will do wonders then."
The curate rejoined Planchet, who was waiting for him on the
stairs. Ten minutes later the curate of St. Sulpice was
announced. As soon as the door of Gondy's study was opened a
man rushed in. It was the Count de Rochefort.
"'Tis you, then, my dear count," cried Gondy, offering his
hand.
"You have made up your mind at last, my lord?" said
Rochefort.
"It has been made up a long time," said Gondy.
"Let us say no more on the subject; you tell me so, I
believe you. Well, we are going to give a ball to Mazarin."
"I hope so."
"And when will the dance begin?"
"The invitations are given for this evening," said the
coadjutor, "but the violins will not begin to play until
to-morrow morning."
"You may reckon upon me and upon fifty soldiers which the
Chevalier d'Humieres has promised me whenever I need them."
"Upon fifty soldiers?"
"Yes, he is making recruits and he will lend them to me; if
any are missing when the fete is over, I shall replace
them."
"Good, my dear Rochefort; but that is not all. What have you
done with Monsieur de Beaufort?"
"He is in Vendome, where he will wait until I write to him
to return to Paris."
"Write to him; now's the time."
"You are sure of your enterprise?"
"Yes, but he must make haste; for hardly will the people of
Paris have revolted before we shall have a score of princes
begging to lead them. If he defers he will find the place of
honor taken."
"Shall I send word to him as coming from you?"
"Yes certainly."
"Shall I tell him that he can count on you?"
"To the end."
"And you will leave the command to him?"
"Of the war, yes, but in politics ---- "
"You must know it is not his element."
"He must leave me to negotiate for my cardinal's hat in my
own fashion."
"You care about it, then, so much?"
"Since they force me to wear a hat of a form which does not
become me," said Gondy, "I wish at least that the hat should
be red."
"One must not dispute matters of taste and colors," said
Rochefort, laughing. "I answer for his consent."
"How soon can he be here?"
"In five days."
"Let him come and he will find a change, I will answer for
it."
"Therefore, go and collect your fifty men and hold yourself
in readiness."
"For what?"
"For everything."
"Is there any signal for the general rally?"
"A knot of straw in the hat."
"Very good. Adieu, my lord."
"Adieu, my dear Rochefort."
"Ah, Monsieur Mazarin, Monsieur Mazarin," said Rochefort,
leading off his curate, who had not found an opportunity of
uttering a single word during the foregoing dialogue, "you
will see whether I am too old to be a man of action."
It was half-past nine o'clock and the coadjutor required
half an hour to go from the archbishop's palace to the tower
of St. Jacques de la Boucherie. He remarked that a light was
burning in one of the highest windows of the tower. "Good,"
said he, "our syndic is at his post."
He knocked and the door was opened. The vicar himself
awaited him, conducted him to the top of the tower, and when
there pointed to a little door, placed the light which he
had brought with him in a corner of the wall, that the
coadjutor might be able to find it on his return, and went
down again. Although the key was in the door the coadjutor
knocked.
"Come in," said a voice which he recognized as that of the
mendicant, whom he found lying on a kind of truckle bed. He
rose on the entrance of the coadjutor, and at that moment
ten o'clock struck.
"Well," said Gondy, "have you kept your word with me?"
"Not exactly," replied the mendicant.
"How is that?"
"You asked me for five hundred men, did you not? Well, I
have ten thousand for you."
"You are not boasting?"
"Do you wish for a proof?"
"Yes."
There were three candles alight, each of which burnt before
a window, one looking upon the city, the other upon the
Palais Royal, and a third upon the Rue Saint Denis.
The man went silently to each of the candles and blew them
out one after the other.
"What are you doing?" asked the coadjutor.
"I have given the signal."
"For what?"
"For the barricades. When you leave this you will behold my
men at work. Only take care you do not break your legs in
stumbling over some chain or your neck by falling in a
hole."
"Good! there is your money, the same sum as that you have
received already. Now remember that you are a general and do
not go and drink."
"For twenty years I have tasted nothing but water."
The man took the bag from the hands of the coadjutor, who
heard the sound of his fingers counting and handling the
gold pieces.
"Ah! ah!" said the coadjutor, "you are avaricious, my good
fellow."
The mendicant sighed and threw down the bag.
"Must I always be the same?" said he, "and shall I never
succeed in overcoming the old leaven? Oh, misery, oh,
vanity!"
"You take it, however."
"Yes, but I make hereby a vow in your presence, to employ
all that remains to me in pious works."
His face was pale and drawn, like that of a man who had just
undergone some inward struggle.
"Singular man!" muttered Gondy, taking his hat to go away;
but on turning around he saw the beggar between him and the
door. His first idea was that this man intended to do him
some harm, but on the contrary he saw him fall on his knees
before him with his hands clasped.
"Your blessing, your holiness, before you go, I beseech
you!" he cried.
"Your holiness!" said Gondy; "my friend, you take me for
some one else."
"No, your holiness, I take you for what you are, that is to
say, the coadjutor; I recognized you at the first glance."
Gondy smiled. "And you want my blessing?" he said.
"Yes, I have need of it."
The mendicant uttered these words in a tone of such
humility, such earnest repentance, that Gondy placed his
hand upon him and gave him his benediction with all the
unction of which he was capable.
"Now," said Gondy, "there is a communion between us. I have
blessed you and you are sacred to me. Come, have you
committed some crime, pursued by human justice, from which I
can protect you?"
The beggar shook his head. "The crime which I have
committed, my lord, has no call upon human justice, and you
can only deliver me from it by blessing me frequently, as
you have just done."
"Come, be candid," said the coadjutor, "you have not all
your life followed the trade which you do now?"
"No, my lord. I have pursued it for six years only."
"And previously, where were you?"
"In the Bastile."
"And before you went to the Bastile?"
"I will tell you, my lord, on the day when you are willing
to hear my confession."
"Good! At whatsoever hour of the day or night you may
present yourself, remember that I shall be ready to give you
absolution."
"Thank you, my lord," said the mendicant in a hoarse voice.
"But I am not yet ready to receive it."
"Very well. Adieu."
"Adieu, your holiness," said the mendicant, opening the door
and bending low before the prelate.
47
The Riot.
It was about eleven o'clock at night. Gondy had not walked a
hundred steps ere he perceived the strange change which had
been made in the streets of Paris.
The whole city seemed peopled with fantastic beings; silent
shadows were seen unpaving the streets and others dragging
and upsetting great wagons, whilst others again dug ditches
large enough to ingulf whole regiments of horsemen. These
active beings flitted here and there like so many demons
completing some unknown labor; these were the beggars of the
Court of Miracles -- the agents of the giver of holy water
in the Square of Saint Eustache, preparing barricades for
the morrow.
Gondy gazed on these deeds of darkness, on these nocturnal
laborers, with a kind of fear; he asked himself, if, after
having called forth these foul creatures from their dens, he
should have the power of making them retire again. He felt
almost inclined to cross himself when one of these beings
happened to approach him. He reached the Rue Saint Honore
and went up it toward the Rue de la Ferronnerie; there the
aspect changed; here it was the tradesmen who were running
from shop to shop; their doors seemed closed like their
shutters, but they were only pushed to in such a manner as
to open and allow the men, who seemed fearful of showing
what they carried, to enter, closing immediately. These men
were shopkeepers, who had arms to lend to those who had
none.
One individual went from door to door, bending under the
weight of swords, guns, muskets and every kind of weapon,
which he deposited as fast as he could. By the light of a
lantern the coadjutor recognized Planchet.
The coadjutor proceeded onward to the quay by way of the Rue
de la Monnaie; there he found groups of bourgeois clad in
black cloaks or gray, according as they belonged to the
upper or lower bourgeoisie. They were standing motionless,
while single men passed from one group to another. All these
cloaks, gray or black, were raised behind by the point of a
sword, or before by the barrel of an arquebuse or a musket.
On reaching the Pont Neuf the coadjutor found it strictly
guarded and a man approached him.
"Who are you?" asked the man. "I do not know you for one of
us."
"Then it is because you do not know your friends, my dear
Monsieur Louvieres," said the coadjutor, raising his hat.
Louvieres recognized him and bowed.
Gondy continued his way and went as far as the Tour de
Nesle. There he saw a lengthy chain of people gliding under
the walls. They might be said to be a procession of ghosts,
for they were all wrapped in white cloaks. When they reached
a certain spot these men appeared to be annihilated, one
after the other, as if the earth had opened under their
feet. Gondy, edged into a corner, saw them vanish from the
first until the last but one. The last raised his eyes, to
ascertain, doubtless, that neither his companions nor
himself had been watched, and, in spite of the darkness, he
perceived Gondy. He walked straight up to him and placed a
pistol to his throat.
"Halloo! Monsieur de Rochefort," said Gondy, laughing, "are
you a boy to play with firearms?"
Rochefort recognized the voice.
"Ah, it is you, my lord!" said he.
"The very same. What people are you leading thus into the
bowels of the earth?"
"My fifty recruits from the Chevalier d'Humieres, who are
destined to enter the light cavalry and who have only
received as yet for their equipment their white cloaks."
"And where are you going?"
"To the house of one of my friends, a sculptor, only we
enter by the trap through which he lets down his marble."
"Very good," said Gondy, shaking Rochefort by the hand, who
descended in his turn and closed the trap after him.
It was now one o'clock in the morning and the coadjutor
returned home. He opened a window and leaned out to listen.
A strange, incomprehensible, unearthly sound seemed to
pervade the whole city; one felt that something unusual and
terrible was happening in all the streets, now dark as
ocean's most unfathomable caves. From time to time a dull
sound was heard, like that of a rising tempest or a billow
of the sea; but nothing clear, nothing distinct, nothing
intelligible; it was like those mysterious subterraneous
noises that precede an earthquake.
The work of revolt continued the whole night thus. The next
morning, on awaking, Paris seemed to be startled at her own
appearance. It was like a besieged town. Armed men,
shouldering muskets, watched over the barricades with
menacing looks; words of command, patrols, arrests,
executions, even, were encountered at every step. Those
bearing plumed hats and gold swords were stopped and made to
cry, "Long live Broussel!" "Down with Mazarin!" and whoever
refused to comply with this ceremony was hooted at, spat
upon and even beaten. They had not yet begun to slay, but it
was well felt that the inclination to do so was not wanting.
The barricades had been pushed as far as the Palais Royal.
From the Rue de Bons Enfants to that of the Ferronnerie,
from the Rue Saint Thomas-du-Louvre to the Pont Neuf, from
the Rue Richelieu to the Porte Saint Honore, there were more
than ten thousand armed men; those who were at the front
hurled defiance at the impassive sentinels of the regiment
of guards posted around the Palais Royal, the gates of which
were closed behind them, a precaution which made their
situation precarious. Among these thousands moved, in bands
numbering from one hundred to two hundred, pale and haggard
men, clothed in rags, who bore a sort of standard on which
was inscribed these words: "Behold the misery of the
people!" Wherever these men passed, frenzied cries were
heard; and there were so many of these bands that the cries
were to be heard in all directions.
The astonishment of Mazarin and of Anne of Austria was great
when it was announced to them that the city, which the
previous evening they had left entirely tranquil, had
