It is night and very dark; only a few ill-trimmed lamps placed on pulleys across the street, and under the signs of the various shops, at long distances from each other, cast a dim and flickering light. The unpaved streets are muddy and full of holes; a mob is collecting in the darkness between the Louvre, the Church of Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois, and the garden of the Palais Royal. It thickens every moment; group after group of men and some women emerge from the gloom. They pour down from Saint-Jacques and from Saint-Antoine, from the quays and the heart of the old Roman city about Notre-Dame and the Hôtel Dieu. They gather from all quarters. Before an hour has passed, a dense multitude, many thousands in number, are packed together. Those who stand under the dim lamps have a dogged, resolute look. All eyes are directed towards the Palais Royal, separated by a high wall from the street. The huge building rises up a gaunt mass before them. Not a light is to be seen at any of the windows; not a sentinel is visible, they are withdrawn within the postern. Threats and oaths and ribald jests pass from mouth to mouth loudly and without fear; savage cries and shouts of laughter ring along the silent streets. Anne of Austria, with her two sons, is within the palace. She is quite aware what is passing without. From an upper window, in a darkened room, she watches the citizens pressing closer and closer to the gates. From amid the tumult, groans and imprecations are now audible; the words reach her ears. "Where is the little King?" cries one. "We will see him!" shrieks another. "You fool! he is not here," answers a third, a smith, as black as his forge, from the slums of Saint-Antoine. "Why not? where should he be but at home?" another voice asks. "We will force the gates, and find him!" roars a stumpy man, with stentorian voice, shaking his fist, and struggling to the front. "Find him! where will you find him? he is in Spain," shouts one at his elbow. "Curses on the Italian priest!" howl many voices in horrible chorus. This cry excites the entire multitude to frenzy; it is taken up from all parts, and a volley of groans and curses for a time drowns all else. The crowd surges to and fro, like breakers on a rocky shore. Each moment it approaches nearer the palace. A tall spare man, an emissary of De Retz, who all along has taken an active part in inciting the people, seizes on the moment as propitious, and calls out in a loud voice, "Death to Mazarin!" Thousands re-echo, "Death to Mazarin!" With hideous gesticulations they throw their arms aloft; caps fly into the air; innumerable hands are clapped in savage applause. "Death to Mazarin!" passes down the lines of the long streets. It is heard at the crossways, and at every side alley and opening, dying away in the far distance into indistinct murmurs.
CARDINAL DE RETZ.
The Queen hears this death-cry standing at the darkened window, and trembles. Again the maddened people shout, "Death to Mazarin!" and again, "Death!" is echoed from afar. "He has spirited away our little Louis into Spain to kill him!" "He has murdered the Regent!" yells out the tall, spare man, forcing his way hither and thither. "Death to the traitor!" "To the gallows with all foreigners!" is the murderous response of the mob.
Fresh cries now arise, led by the tall, spare man with the powerful voice. "Vive Gondi, our noble bishop! We will have Gondi! the Queen shall choose Gondi, our Coadjutor!" "Come forth and answer to us, Dame Anne!" shrieks a woman's shrill voice, very near the palace, during a momentary lull. "Come forth, or we will break in and shoot you! Where is our Roi des Halles? Where is Beaufort? Come out to us, and speak like an honest woman! Let Beaufort free!—Give up your lover, Mazarin!" bellows a fat beldame from the Halles. "Give up the bon ami, and we will roast him at the Grève, and dance round the bonfire!" and hideous peals of laughter, yells, hisses, and imprecations rise out of the night. Then, growing impatient, the whole mass, with one accord, vociferate, "We will see the King! where is the King? Show us the little King, or we will set fire to the palace. The King! the King!"
A tremendous rush is made from behind; those in front fall down, screaming that they are killed; others trample upon their bodies. The gates are forced; the foremost find themselves within the court. Pushed on by the press from behind, they now stand under the colonnade, then beneath the portico, on past the Queen's Guards, who, commanded only to defend, not to attack, stand back, drawn swords in their hands, darkly eying the rioters. The lofty portals of the Palais Royal are wide open; there are lights within the ample hall. Beyond is the grand staircase, with gilded banisters. Finding no obstacle, the rioters mount the stairs. On the first landing a woman stands, immovable. It is the Queen. She is alone. She is pale, but betrays no fear. The rude intruders draw back, amazed at the vision of majesty and loveliness before them. Anne of Austria beckons to them to advance. She places her finger on her lip, commanding silence. The rabble, before so noisy, are instantly hushed as by a charm. Signing to the foremost to follow her, she leads the way, through sumptuous chambers and vaulted galleries, to the King's sleeping-room. She approaches his little bed of gilt lattice-work, and gently drawing aside the lace curtains, displays Louis XIV. in the sound and tranquil sleep of childhood. The citizen Frondeurs are satisfied. The mothers bless his baby face and rich auburn curls. The men contemplate the Queen with awe. She stands beside the bed, surveying them with royal unconcern. When they have stared their full at the little King and at her, those who have already entered turn back. No others dare approach. Ashamed and silent, they retreat across the halls and through sculptured galleries in a very different spirit to that in which they came.
Anne of Austria grows more and more devout. She spends long hours in her oratory, prostrate before an image of the Magdalene. She often retires to the Val de Grâce, where she has built a splendid church, as a thank-offering for the birth of her sons. For days together she wears closely fitting serge dresses, buttoned up to the throat, like a lay nun. She fasts, and chastises herself with a severity proper alike to a sinner or a saint.
Yet there are whispers, and confidences, and anecdotes touching her intimacy with Cardinal Mazarin, not quite in accordance with such excessive austerity.