When the procession reached the palace, loud cries of “Long live their majesties!” resounded. Mazarin leaned out of the window. One or two shouts of “Long live the cardinal” saluted his shadow; but instantly hisses and yells stifled them remorselessly. Mazarin turned pale and shrank back in the coach.
“Low-born fellows!” ejaculated Porthos.
D’Artagnan said nothing, but twirled his mustache with a peculiar gesture which showed that his fine Gascon humor was awake.
Anne of Austria bent down and whispered in the young king’s ear:
“Say something gracious to Monsieur d’Artagnan, my son.”
The young king leaned toward the door.
“I have not said good-morning to you, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” he said; “nevertheless, I have remarked you. It was you who were behind my bed-curtains that night the Parisians wished to see me asleep.”
“And if the king permits me,” returned the Gascon, “I shall be near him always when there is danger to be encountered.”
“Sir,” said Mazarin to Porthos, “what would you do if the crowd fell upon us?”
“Kill as many as I could, my lord.”