“The gates! to hold for five minutes—the gates, they will be torn down, twisted into iron wire, ground to powder! God’s death, don’t fire!” screamed D’Artagnan, throwing open the window. In spite of this recommendation, which, owing to the noise, could scarcely have been heard, two or three musket shots resounded, succeeded by a terrible discharge. The balls might be heard peppering the facade of the Palais Royal, and one of them, passing under D’Artagnan’s arm, entered and broke a mirror, in which Porthos was complacently admiring himself. “Alack! alack!” cried the cardinal, “a Venetian glass!” “Oh, my lord,” said D’Artagnan, quietly shutting the window, “it is not worth while weeping yet, for probably an hour hence there will not be one of your mirrors remaining in the Palais Royal, whether they be Venetian or Parisian.” “But what do you advise, then?” asked Mazarin, trembling. “Eh, egad, to give up Broussel as they demand! What the devil do you want with a member of the parliament? He is of no earthly use to anybody.” “And you, Monsieur du Vallon, is that your advice? What would you do?” “I should give up Broussel,” said Porthos. “Come, come with me, gentlemen!” exclaimed Mazarin. “I will go and discuss the matter with the queen.” He stopped at the end of the corridor and said: “I can count upon you, gentlemen, can I not?” “We do not give ourselves twice over,” said D’Artagnan; “we have given ourselves to you; command, we shall obey.” “Very well, then,” said Mazarin; “enter this cabinet and wait till I come back.” And turning off he entered the drawing-room by another door. Chapter XLVIII. The Riot becomes a Revolution. The closet into which D’Artagnan and Porthos had been ushered was separated from the drawing-room where the queen was by tapestried curtains only, and this thin partition enabled them to hear all that passed in the adjoining room, whilst the aperture between the two hangings, small as it was, permitted them to see.