Mazarin, when he heard that the parliament, lashed on by Gondi, the Coadjutor, seriously proposed to revive an obsolete law, which would connect his name with that of Concini, who had been shot down like a dog within the precincts of the Louvre, was alarmed. Not being a soldier like Richelieu, nor a patriot like De Retz, but only a soft-spoken Italian, with a slight frame,—no unnecessary bones or muscles,—long thin hands, and a sallow, womanish face, he applied to the all-powerful Condé for help. Condé effected a compromise with Gondi. So no more was heard of the obnoxious law at that particular time. But the parliament had, like a young lion, tasted blood in the way of power, liked it, and was not to be appeased. Spite of Condé, seditious edicts and offensive measures, all suggested by the Coadjutor, continued to be passed; and Mazarin shut himself up within four walls, fearing for his very life. 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 Not a light is to be seen at any of the windows; not a sentinel is visible, they are withdrawn within the postern.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