"_Ma foi!_" growled the bourgeois, "but he has _toupet_, that one! he makes himself master of the King's mother, takes the food out of the King's mouth, and sets up his pomade-pots in the King's house!" The people knew that, if they knew nothing of Westphalia; the handsome fop had eclipsed the diplomatist. The people called Mazarin "the pomade inventor" and "moustache of the paste-pots" (not to cite their grosser expressions). When the mob cried: _Vive le Roi!_ Retz heard echo answer: _Mais point de Mazarin!_ The Queen was like all women deep in love; she wondered why people blamed her. Her anger embittered the situation, but after making many futile attempts Parliament persuaded her to resume her duties and (the last day of October) the King, the Queen, the Court, and the retinue, followed by loaded vans, passed through the suburbs homeward bound. Before they reached the city they saw that public feeling had changed. The people had lost their respect for the Court. No one cared either for the Queen or for her Minister. The canaille hummed significant songs and cast bold glances at the mature lovers; the courtiers' eyes furtively lingered upon the walls where coarsely worded posters accused the Queen of her delinquencies. Anne of Austria was brave. She entered Paris with cheeks aflame but with head high. She would change all that! Parliament had urged her to return.... Time passed and the general attitude retained its flippancy. At Court all were counting the cost and planning how they could best turn the coming misfortunes of the Crown to their own profit; écus, dignities, offices, benefits of all kinds, would be within the gift of the new administration. The great were prepared for the emergency. Retz had driven his curés over to the opposition. La Rochefoucauld had urged Mme. de Longueville after the clerical sheep and Conti after her. Anne of Austria's patience was at an end; she had no one to advise her; after she had assured herself that the Condés would sustain her, she set out to the Luxembourg. Monsieur was in the agonies of one of the diplomatic attacks to which he was subject; no one knew whether his pains were real or feigned. He was in bed. He had not changed since the days of Richelieu; he was the same light-hearted, nervous, and bold poltroon, but his intellect was keen, he charmed strangers, he was pleasing even to those who knew him best. Though the Queen was used to his arts, she was dazed by the flood of words with which he welcomed her. From tender anxiety for her well-being he passed to the real anxiety of well-defined personal terror. Then, without stopping to take breath, he gave vent to such sentimental emotions that when Anne of Austria told her errand he had neither the face nor the force to refuse her prayer. She begged him to conduct the King out of Paris secretly, and--"_By the faith of Monsieur!_" he swore that he would do it.