It is a long and weary drive to Saint-Germain. When they arrive it is breakfast time. But the Queen commands every creature, including her children, into the chapel to hear mass. As soon as they had time to look round, they find the palace (a dreary, gaunt edifice at all times) cold and wretched beyond description in a dark January morning. The rooms are entirely empty—Mazarin having made no provision for the Queen's arrival, out of fear, perhaps, that her flight might become known. There are neither beds, furniture, nor linen. There is not a servant or attendant of any kind but such as have accompanied them. When it is night the Queen lies down to rest on a little camp bedstead. The King and his brother fare no better. Mademoiselle is accommodated with a straw mattress in a magnificent saloon on the third floor. There were plenty of mirrors and much gilding, and the windows were lofty, and commanded an extensive view, but there is not a single pane of glass in one of them! No one has a change of linen. What was worn by night was washed by day. The Queen laughs at everything. She says—"It is an escapade which will at most last three days; when the citizens find that the Court has left the Palais Royal they will speedily come to their senses." CHAPTER XIV. THE LADIES' WAR. When the citizens of Paris find that the Court had left the Palais Royal, instead of coming to their senses, they were furious. The Coadjutor, who had broken with the Regent, ruled supreme. He skilfully availed himself of the crisis, and caused the parliament to pass the act against aliens. This measure outlawed Mazarin as an enemy of the King and of the State, a conspirator, a perjurer, and a thief; confiscated his possessions, and enjoined all faithful subjects to shoot him without trial. Civil war breaks out. The troops of the Queen-Regent were but feebly attacked. It was the _hearts_ of her generals that were vigorously assailed by the lady commandants of the Fronde, whose artillery was blandishments and enticements. Every soul in Paris armed himself, and took the field in whatever costume he usually wore. The nobles led the way in feathered hats, satin doublets, silk stockings, and high-heeled boots. No one knew what they were fighting for. The cry was, "_Vive la Fronde!_" "_Mort à Mazarin!_"