“In that hotel? it is the Hotel Rambouillet,” cried Guitant. “I really don’t know what hotel it is; all I do know is that I observed some suspicious looking people go in there——” “Nonsense!” exclaimed Guitant, with a burst of laughter; “those men must be poets.” “Come, Guitant, speak, if you please, respectfully of these gentlemen,” said Mazarin; “don’t you know that I was in my youth a poet? I wrote verses in the style of Benserade——” “_You_, my lord?” “Yes, I; shall I repeat to you some of my verses?” “Just as you please, my lord. I do not understand Italian.” “Yes, but you understand French,” and Mazarin laid his hand upon Guitant’s shoulder. “My good, my brave Guitant, whatsoever command I may give you in that language—in French—whatever I may order you to do, will you not perform it?” “Certainly. I have already answered that question in the affirmative; but that command must come from the queen herself.” “Yes! ah yes!” Mazarin bit his lips as he spoke; “I know your devotion to her majesty.” “I have been a captain in the queen’s guards for twenty years,” was the reply. “_En route_, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the cardinal; “all goes well in this direction.” D’Artagnan, in the meantime, had taken the head of his detachment without a word and with that ready and profound obedience which marks the character of an old soldier. He led the way toward the hill of Saint Roche. The Rue Richelieu and the Rue Villedot were then, owing to their vicinity to the ramparts, less frequented than any others in that direction, for the town was thinly inhabited thereabout. “Who is in command here?” asked the cardinal. “Villequier,” said Guitant. “_Diavolo!_ Speak to him yourself, for ever since you were deputed by me to arrest the Duc de Beaufort, this officer and I have been on bad terms. He laid claim to that honor as captain of the royal guards.” “I am aware of that, and I have told him a hundred times that he was wrong. The king could not give that order, since at that time he was hardly four years old.” “Yes, but I could give him the order—I, Guitant—and I preferred to give it to you.” Guitant, without reply, rode forward and desired the sentinel to call Monsieur de Villequier. “Ah! so you are here!” cried the officer, in the tone of ill-humor habitual to him; “what the devil are you doing here?” “I wish to know—can you tell me, pray—is anything fresh occurring in this part of the town?” “What do you mean? People cry out, ‘Long live the king! down with Mazarin!’ That’s nothing new; no, we’ve been used to those acclamations for some time.” “And you sing chorus,” replied Guitant, laughing. “Faith, I’ve half a mind to do it. In my opinion the people are right; and cheerfully would I give up five years of my pay—which I am never paid, by the way—to make the king five years older.” “Really! And pray what would come to pass, supposing the king were five years older than he is?”