(“And what will he promise us?” said D’Artagnan. “_Peste_, if he is giving away hats like that, Porthos, let us look out and both demand a regiment to-morrow. _Corbleu!_ let the civil war last but one year and I will have a constable’s sword gilt for me.” “And for me?” put in Porthos. “For you? I will give you the baton of the Maréchal de la Meilleraie, who does not seem to be much in favor just now.”) “And so, sir,” said the queen, “you are seriously afraid of a public tumult.” “Seriously,” said Gondy, astonished at not having further advanced; “I fear that when the torrent has broken its embankment it will cause fearful destruction.” “And I,” said the queen, “think that in such a case other embankments should be raised to oppose it. Go; I will reflect.” Gondy looked at Mazarin, astonished, and Mazarin approached the queen to speak to her, but at this moment a frightful tumult arose from the square of the Palais Royal. Gondy smiled, the queen’s color rose and Mazarin grew even paler. “What is that again?” he asked. At this moment Comminges rushed into the room. “Pardon, your majesty,” he cried, “but the people have dashed the sentinels against the gates and they are now forcing the doors; what are your commands?” “Listen, madame,” said Gondy. The moaning of waves, the noise of thunder, the roaring of a volcano, cannot be compared with the tempest of cries heard at that moment. “What are my commands?” said the queen. “Yes, for time presses.” “How many men have you about the Palais Royal?” “Six hundred.” “Place a hundred around the king and with the remainder sweep away this mob for me.” “Madame,” cried Mazarin, “what are you about?” “Go!” said the queen. Comminges went out with a soldier’s passive obedience. At this moment a monstrous battering was heard. One of the gates began to yield. “Oh! madame,” cried Mazarin, “you have ruined us all—the king, yourself and me.” At this cry from the soul of the frightened cardinal, Anne became alarmed in her turn and would have recalled Comminges. “It is too late,” said Mazarin, tearing his hair, “too late!” The gale had given way. Hoarse shouts were heard from the excited mob. D’Artagnan put his hand to his sword, motioning to Porthos to follow his example. “Save the queen!” cried Mazarin to the coadjutor. Gondy sprang to the window and threw it open; he recognized Louvières at the head of a troop of about three or four thousand men. “Not a step further,” he shouted, “the queen is signing!” “What are you saying?” asked the queen. “The truth, madame,” said Mazarin, placing a pen and a paper before her, “you must;” then he added: “Sign, Anne, I implore you—I _command_ you.” The queen fell into a chair, took the pen and signed. The people, kept back by Louvières, had not made another step forward; but the awful murmuring, which indicates an angry people, continued.