At this moment the tumult was heard nearer.
Mazarin wiped his forehead and looked around him. He had a great desire to go to the window, but he dared not.
“See what is going on, Monsieur D’Artagnan,” said he.
D’Artagnan went to the window with his habitual composure. “Oho!” said he, “what is this? Marechal de la Meilleraie returning without a hat—Fontrailles with his arm in a sling—wounded guards—horses bleeding; eh, then, what are the sentinels about? They are aiming—they are going to fire!”
“They have received orders to fire on the people if the people approach the Palais Royal!” exclaimed Mazarin.
“But if they fire, all is lost!” cried D’Artagnan.
“We have the gates.”
“The gates! to hold for five minutes—the gates, they will be torn down, twisted into iron wire, ground to powder! God’s death, don’t fire!” screamed D’Artagnan, throwing open the window.
In spite of this recommendation, which, owing to the noise, could scarcely have been heard, two or three musket shots resounded, succeeded by a terrible discharge. The balls might be heard peppering the facade of the Palais Royal, and one of them, passing under D’Artagnan’s arm, entered and broke a mirror, in which Porthos was complacently admiring himself.
“Alack! alack!” cried the cardinal, “a Venetian glass!”