The circumstances that had hastened the return of D’Artagnan to Paris were as follows:
One evening, when Mazarin, according to custom, went to visit the queen, in passing the guard-chamber he heard loud voices; wishing to know on what topic the soldiers were conversing, he approached with his wonted wolf-like step, pushed open the door and put his head close to the chink.
There was a dispute among the guards.
“I tell you,” one of them was saying, “that if Coysel predicted that, ’tis as good as true; I know nothing about it, but I have heard say that he’s not only an astrologer, but a magician.”
“Deuce take it, friend, if he’s one of thy friends thou wilt ruin him in saying so.”
“Why?”
“Because he may be tried for it.”
“Ah! absurd! they don’t burn sorcerers nowadays.”
“No? ’Tis not a long time since the late cardinal burnt Urban Grandier, though.”
“My friend, Urban Grandier wasn’t a sorcerer, he was a learned man. He didn’t predict the future, he knew the past—often a more dangerous thing.”