“What is going on, my lord? nothing good,” replied D’Artagnan, shaking his head. “The town is in open revolt, and just now, as I was crossing the Rue Montorgueil with Monsieur du Vallon, who is here, and is your humble servant, they wanted in spite of my uniform, or perhaps because of my uniform, to make us cry ‘Long live Broussel!’ and must I tell you, my lord what they wished us to cry as well?”
“Speak, speak.”
“‘Down with Mazarin!’ I’faith, the treasonable word is out.”
Mazarin smiled, but became very pale.
“And you did cry?” he asked.
“I’faith, no,” said D’Artagnan; “I was not in voice; Monsieur du Vallon has a cold and did not cry either. Then, my lord——”
“Then what?” asked Mazarin.
“Look at my hat and cloak.”
And D’Artagnan displayed four gunshot holes in his cloak and two in his beaver. As for Porthos’s coat, a blow from a halberd had cut it open on the flank and a pistol shot had cut his feather in two.
“Diavolo!” said the cardinal, pensively gazing at the two friends with lively admiration; “I should have cried, I should.”