“Who is in command here?” asked the cardinal.
“Villequier,” said Guitant.
“Diavolo! Speak to him yourself, for ever since you were deputed by me to arrest the Duc de Beaufort, this officer and I have been on bad terms. He laid claim to that honor as captain of the royal guards.”
“I am aware of that, and I have told him a hundred times that he was wrong. The king could not give that order, since at that time he was hardly four years old.”
“Yes, but I could give him the order—I, Guitant—and I preferred to give it to you.”
Guitant, without reply, rode forward and desired the sentinel to call Monsieur de Villequier.
“Ah! so you are here!” cried the officer, in the tone of ill-humor habitual to him; “what the devil are you doing here?”
“I wish to know—can you tell me, pray—is anything fresh occurring in this part of the town?”
“What do you mean? People cry out, ‘Long live the king! down with Mazarin!’ That’s nothing new; no, we’ve been used to those acclamations for some time.”
“And you sing chorus,” replied Guitant, laughing.