The queen had written, “The keeper of the prison at Saint Germain will set Councillor Broussel at liberty;” and she had signed it. The coadjutor, whose eyes devoured her slightest movements, seized the paper immediately the signature had been affixed to it, returned to the window and waved it in his hand. “This is the order,” he said. All Paris seemed to shout with joy, and then the air resounded with the cries of “Long live Broussel!” “Long live the coadjutor!” “Long live the queen!” cried De Gondy; but the cries which replied to his were poor and few, and perhaps he had but uttered it to make Anne of Austria sensible of her weakness. “And now that you have obtained what you want, go,” said she, “Monsieur de Gondy.” “Whenever her majesty has need of me,” replied the coadjutor, bowing, “her majesty knows I am at her command.” “Ah, cursed priest!” cried Anne, when he had retired, stretching out her arm to the scarcely closed door, “one day I will make you drink the dregs of the atrocious gall you have poured out on me to-day.” Mazarin wished to approach her. “Leave me!” she exclaimed; “you are not a man!” and she went out of the room. “It is you who are not a woman,” muttered Mazarin. Then, after a moment of reverie, he remembered where he had left D’Artagnan and Porthos and that they must have overheard everything. He knit his brows and went direct to the tapestry, which he pushed aside. The closet was empty. At the queen’s last word, D’Artagnan had dragged Porthos into the gallery. Thither Mazarin went in his turn and found the two friends walking up and down. “Why did you leave the closet, Monsieur d’Artagnan?” asked the cardinal. “Because,” replied D’Artagnan, “the queen desired every one to leave and I thought that this command was intended for us as well as for the rest.” “And you have been here since——” “About a quarter of an hour,” said D’Artagnan, motioning to Porthos not to contradict him. Mazarin saw the sign and remained convinced that D’Artagnan had seen and heard everything; but he was pleased with his falsehood. “Decidedly, Monsieur d’Artagnan, you are the man I have been seeking. You may reckon upon me and so may your friend.” Then bowing to the two musketeers with his most gracious smile, he re-entered his closet more calmly, for on the departure of De Gondy the uproar had ceased as though by enchantment. Chapter XLIX. Misfortune refreshes the Memory. Anne of Austria returned to her oratory, furious. “What!” she cried, wringing her beautiful hands, “What! the people have seen Monsieur de Condé, a prince of the blood royal, arrested by my mother-in-law, Maria de Médicis; they saw my mother-in-law, their former regent, expelled by the cardinal; they saw Monsieur de Vendôme, that is to say, the son of Henry IV., a prisoner at Vincennes; and whilst these great personages were imprisoned, insulted and threatened, they said nothing; and now for a Broussel—good God! what, then, is to become of royalty?”