"Prenons quelque treve;
Nous sommes lasses.
Les rois de la feve
Nous ont harasses.
"Allons, Jean du Mayne,
Les rois sont passes.
"Les rois de la feve
Nous ont harasses.
Allons, Jean du Mayne,
Les rois sont passes."
The frightful bands who howled forth these words traversed the Quais and the Pont-Neuf, squeezing against the high houses, which then covered the latter, the peaceful citizens who were led there by simple curiosity. Two young men, wrapped in cloaks, thus thrown one against the other, recognized each other by the light of a torch placed at the foot of the statue of Henri IV, which had been lately raised.
"What! still at Paris?" said Corneille to Milton. "I thought you were in London."
"Hear you the people, Monsieur? Do you hear them? What is this ominous chorus,
'Les rois sont passes'?"
"That is nothing, Monsieur. Listen to their conversation."
"The parliament is dead," said one of the men; "the nobles are dead. Let us dance; we are the masters. The old Cardinal is dying. There is no longer any but the King and ourselves."
"Do you hear that drunken wretch, Monsieur?" asked Corneille. "All our epoch is in those words of his."