“It seems that some days since Councillor Bachaumont remarked at the palace that rebels and agitators reminded him of schoolboys slinging—_qui frondent_—stones from the moats round Paris, young urchins who run off the moment the constable appears, only to return to their diversion the instant his back is turned. So they have picked up the word and the insurrectionists are called ‘Frondeurs,’ and yesterday every article sold was ‘à la Fronde;’ bread ‘à la Fronde,’ hats ‘à la Fronde,’ to say nothing of gloves, pocket-handkerchiefs, and fans; but listen——” At that moment a window opened and a man began to sing: “A tempest from the Fronde Did blow to-day: I think ’twill blow Sieur Mazarin away.” “Insolent wretch!” cried Guitant. “My lord,” said Comminges, who, irritated by his wounds, wished for revenge and longed to give back blow for blow, “shall I fire off a ball to punish that jester, and to warn him not to sing so much out of tune in the future?” And as he spoke he put his hand on the holster of his uncle’s saddle-bow. “Certainly not! certainly not,” exclaimed Mazarin. “_Diavolo!_ my dear friend, you are going to spoil everything—everything is going on famously. I know the French as well as if I had made them myself. They sing—let them pay the piper. During the Ligue, about which Guitant was speaking just now, the people chanted nothing except the mass, so everything went to destruction. Come, Guitant, come along, and let’s see if they keep watch at the Quinze-Vingts as at the Barrière des Sergens.” And waving his hand to Comminges he rejoined D’Artagnan, who instantly put himself at the head of his troop, followed by the cardinal, Guitant and the rest of the escort. “Just so,” muttered Comminges, looking after Mazarin. “True, I forgot; provided he can get money out of the people, that is all he wants.” The street of Saint Honoré, when the cardinal and his party passed through it, was crowded by an assemblage who, standing in groups, discussed the edicts of that memorable day. They pitied the young king, who was unconsciously ruining his country, and threw all the odium of his proceedings on Mazarin. Addresses to the Duke of Orléans and to Condé were suggested. Blancmesnil and Broussel seemed in the highest favor. D’Artagnan passed through the very midst of this discontented mob just as if his horse and he had been made of iron. Mazarin and Guitant conversed together in whispers. The musketeers, who had already discovered who Mazarin was, followed in profound silence. In the street of Saint Thomas-du-Louvre they stopped at the barrier distinguished by the name of Quinze-Vingts. Here Guitant spoke to one of the subalterns, asking how matters were progressing. “Ah, captain!” said the officer, “everything is quiet hereabout—if I did not know that something is going on in yonder house!” And he pointed to a magnificent hotel situated on the very spot whereon the Vaudeville now stands.