"Ah, Monsieur Paul," said the lackey, hiding the cast-off clothing in
the closet, "I am that glad to see you safe and sound again!"
"Your own face is welcome, lad. What weather I have seen!" wringing
his mustache and royal. "And Heaven forfend that another such ride
falls my lot." He smiled at the ruddy heap in the fireplace.
What a ride, indeed! For nearly two weeks he had ridden over hills and
mountains, through valleys and gorges, access deep and shallow streams,
sometimes beneath the sun, sometimes beneath the moon or the stars,
sometimes beneath the flying black canopies of midnight storms, always
and ever toward Paris. He had been harried by straggling Spaniards; he
had drawn his sword three times in unavoidable tavern brawls; he had
been robbed of his purse; he had even pawned his signet-ring for a
night's lodging: all because Mazarin had asked a question which only
the pope could answer.
Paris at last!--Paris the fanciful, the illogical, the changeable, the
wholly delightful Paris! He knew his Paris well, did the Chevalier.
He had been absent thirty days, and on the way in from Fontainebleau,
where he had spent the preceding night at the expense of his
signet-ring, he had wondered what changes had taken place among the
exiles and favorites during this time. What if the Grande Mademoiselle
again headed that comic revolution, the Fronde, as in the old days when
she climbed the walls at Orléans and assumed command against the forces
of the king? What if Monsieur de Retz issued orders from the Palais
Royal, using the same-pen with which Mazarin had demanded his
resignation as Archbishop of Paris? In fact, what if Madame de
Longueville, aided by the middle class, had once more taken up quarters
in the Hôtel de Ville? Oh! so many things happened in Paris in thirty
days that the Chevalier would not have been surprised to learn that the
boy Louis had declared to govern his kingdom without the assistance of
ministers, priests, and old women. Ah, that Fronde! Those had been
gallant days, laughable, it is true; but every one seemed to be able to
pluck a feather from the golden goose of fortune. He was eighteen
then, and had followed the royal exodus to Germain.
The Chevalier sighed as he continued to absorb the genial heat of the
water. The captain at the Porte Saint Antoine had told him that the
Grande Mademoiselle was still in exile at Blois, writing lampoons
against the court and particularly against Mazarin; that De Retz was
biting his nails, full of rage and impotence against those fetters
which banishment casts around men of action; that Madame de Longueville
was conducting a love-intrigue in Normandy; and that Louis had to
borrow or beg his pocket-money. Strange as it seemed to the Chevalier,
Paris was unchanged.