The queen was standing in the room, pale with anger; her self-control, however, was so great that it might have been imagined that she was calm. Comminges, Villequier and Guitant were behind her and the women again were behind the men. The Chancellor Sequier, who twenty years previously had persecuted her so ruthlessly, stood before her, relating how his carriage had been smashed, how he had been pursued and had rushed into the Hotel d’O——, that the hotel was immediately invaded, pillaged and devastated; happily he had time to reach a closet hidden behind tapestry, in which he was secreted by an old woman, together with his brother, the Bishop of Meaux. Then the danger was so imminent, the rioters came so near, uttering such threats, that the chancellor thought his last hour had come and confessed himself to his brother priest, so as to be all ready to die in case he was discovered. Fortunately, however, he had not been taken; the people, believing that he had escaped by some back entrance, retired and left him at liberty to retreat. Then, disguised in the clothes of the Marquis d’O——, he had left the hotel, stumbling over the bodies of an officer and two guards who had been killed whilst defending the street door. During the recital Mazarin entered and glided noiselessly up to the queen to listen. “Well,” said the queen, when the chancellor had finished speaking; “what do you think of it all?” “I think that matters look very gloomy, madame.” “But what step would you propose to me?” “I _could_ propose one to your majesty, but I dare not.” “You may, you may, sir,” said the queen with a bitter smile; “you were not so timid once.” The chancellor reddened and stammered some words. “It is not a question of the past, but of the present,” said the queen; “you said you could give me advice—what is it?” “Madame,” said the chancellor, hesitating, “it would be to release Broussel.” The queen, although already pale, became visibly paler and her face was contracted. “Release Broussel!” she cried, “never!” At this moment steps were heard in the ante-room and without any announcement the Maréchal de la Meilleraie appeared at the door. “Ah, there you are, maréchal,” cried Anne of Austria joyfully. “I trust you have brought this rabble to reason.” “Madame,” replied the maréchal, “I have left three men on the Pont Neuf, four at the Halle, six at the corner of the Rue de l’Arbre-Sec and two at the door of your palace—fifteen in all. I have brought away ten or twelve wounded. I know not where I have left my hat, and in all probability I should have been left with my hat, had the coadjutor not arrived in time to rescue me.” “Ah, indeed,” said the queen, “it would have much astonished me if that low cur, with his distorted legs, had not been mixed up with all this.” “Madame,” said La Meilleraie, “do not say too much against him before me, for the service he rendered me is still fresh.”