“Anne,” said he, “you are but a woman and as a woman you may insult men at your ease, knowing that you can do it with impunity. You accuse me of fear; I have not so much as you have, since I do not fly as you do. Against whom do they cry out? is it against you or against myself? Whom would they hang, yourself or me? Well, I can weather the storm—I, whom, notwithstanding, you tax with fear—not with bravado, that is not my way; but I am firm. Imitate me. Make less hubbub and think more deeply. You cry very loud, you end by doing nothing; you talk of flying——” Mazarin shrugged his shoulders and taking the queen’s hand led her to the window. “Look!” he said. “Well?” said the queen, blinded by her obstinacy. “Well, what do you see from this window? If I am not mistaken those are citizens, helmeted and mailed, armed with good muskets, as in the time of the League, and whose eyes are so intently fixed on this window that they will see you if you raise that curtain much; and now come to the other side—what do you see? Creatures of the people, armed with halberds, guarding your doors. You will see the same at every opening from this palace to which I should lead you. Your doors are guarded, the airholes of your cellars are guarded, and I could say to you, as that good La Ramee said to me of the Duc de Beaufort, you must be either bird or mouse to get out.” “He did get out, nevertheless.” “Do you think of escaping in the same way?” “I am a prisoner, then?” “_Parbleu!_” said Mazarin, “I have been proving it to you this last hour.” And he quietly resumed his dispatch at the place where he had been interrupted. Anne, trembling with anger and scarlet with humiliation, left the room, shutting the door violently after her. Mazarin did not even turn around. When once more in her own apartment Anne fell into a chair and wept; then suddenly struck with an idea: “I am saved!” she exclaimed, rising; “oh, yes! yes! I know a man who will find the means of taking me from Paris, a man I have too long forgotten.” Then falling into a reverie, she added, however, with an expression of joy, “Ungrateful woman that I am, for twenty years I have forgotten this man, whom I ought to have made a maréchal of France. My mother-in-law expended gold, caresses, dignities on Concini, who ruined her; the king made Vitry maréchal of France for an assassination: while I have left in obscurity, in poverty, the noble D’Artagnan, who saved me!” And running to a table, on which were paper, pens and ink, she hastily began to write. Chapter L. The Interview.