"Ma foi!" exclaimed a strong voice, which sounded somewhat familiar, "one would imagine this Condé to be a king!" and looking round, I recognised the Englishman who belonged to the Queen's Guards.
"Be careful," said I, warningly. "It is unwise to abuse Condé here."
"For to-day!" replied he, laughing. "To-morrow it may be different. Pardon me, monsieur, but I do not understand your people. They are too much like quicksilver; one is never sure where to catch them. Just now they welcome Condé as a hero, but who can say what they will do in a week?"
"Monsieur makes the mistake of most strangers; he judges the country by Paris, which is wrong," I remarked.
"Perhaps so. Paris is almost the only place with which I am acquainted. But are you, too, waiting to cheer Condé? If not, let us slip away from the crowd; the noise is becoming a nuisance."
He was such a pleasant fellow that I gladly joined him, and we strolled back together to the Palais Royal. His name, as I have mentioned, was John Humphreys, and, although still a young man, he had already been through numerous adventures. In the great English Civil War he had fought at his father's side for King Charles. Then, being left alone and penniless by the death of his father in the Low Countries, he had journeyed to Paris and taken service in the Queen's Guards. There were numerous English exiles in Paris at that time, but most of them, I think, were in the pay of Condé.
Raoul had not returned, so that I was glad of the Englishman's company, and, indeed, we very soon became good friends. He was never tired of talking about his country and of his hope one day to live there again. Sometimes I accompanied him to his quarters at the Palais Royal, where he introduced me to a few of his comrades, but more often we strolled about the city.
For once in a while Paris was actually quiet. The people went peacefully to their daily work; the lowest classes retired to their dens, and one could take a morning walk without meeting a howling mob. Every one repeated the same tale. Mazarin would never return; Condé was master, and the stupid Fronde was at an end.
Madame Coutance had returned to Paris with her niece, and occasionally I spent an hour at her house, where she treated me with much kindness; only she would insist that I was a silly fellow not to abandon a lost cause.
For a time it really seemed that Condé's triumph was assured, but soon I began to hear whispers that all was not right in the Palais Royal. Bits of gossip picked up by the Englishman, and a word or two from Le Tellier, made me imagine that Condé's position was less safe than he imagined.