‘Give it to La Vallière!’ exclaimed another of the citizens.
‘Or Madame de Montespan,’ cried a third.
‘Or, rather, to her husband!’ was ejaculated in a woman’s voice.
‘Respect his parents,’ exclaimed a bourgeois, with mock solemnity, who was standing at the foot of the bridge, and pointing to a group of three figures in bronze relief, which adorned a triangular group of houses close to where he was stationed. They were those of Louis XIII., Anne of Austria, and the present King when a child.
‘Simon Guillain, the sculptor, was a false workman!’ shouted the bystander who had first spoken. ‘Where is the fourth of the family?’
The mountebank, who had been endeavouring to talk through the noise, found himself completely outclamoured by the uproar that now arose. He gave up making himself heard, and remained silent whilst the crowd launched their sallies, or bandied their satirical jibes from one to the other.
‘Where is the fourth?’ continued the speaker.
‘Ask Dame Perronette, who nursed him!’ was the reply from the other side of the carrefour.
‘Ask Saint-Mars who locked on his iron mask.’
‘Who will knock and ask at Mazarin’s coffin!’ shouted another, with a strength of lungs that ensured a hearing. ‘He ought to know best.’