MIDNIGHT VISITORS.

THE Queen could no longer appear in the streets without insult. The mob laughed in her face, and called her Madame Anne. They saluted Mazarin with howls, as her bon ami; some said amant. The words sound much alike when shouted by a mob, and are not indeed always different in point of fact. Gondi, in the parliament, uttered thrilling words about la belle France going to perdition between a Spanish regent and an Italian minister. No president was found to rebuke him. Indeed when he demanded that the law respecting aliens holding office of state, passed against Concini (MarÉchal d'Ancre) in the regency of Marie de' Medici, should be amended to suit the present crisis, his words were received with such a fury of applause that the roof was very nearly brought down about his head. Yet if any single member of that noisy parliament had been asked what national misfortune he dreaded, what unpunished crime, what neglect, or what personal hardship he desired to redress, he would have found it difficult to answer. It was the fashion for every one to be discontented and to rebel. If citizens, to call themselves Frondeurs; if nobles, Importants. To object to everything; to harass the Government, refuse to pay taxes and subsidies; and to threaten to call in Spain on the most trivial pretences. And this because two duchesses had quarrelled, and certain hungry princes had lost the sinecures they craved for. Thus began the civil war of the Fronde, which lasted during the whole of the minority of Louis XIV.

Mazarin, when he heard that the parliament, lashed on by Gondi, the Coadjutor, seriously proposed to revive an obsolete law, which would connect his name with that of Concini, who had been shot down like a dog within the precincts of the Louvre, was alarmed. Not being a soldier like Richelieu, nor a patriot like De Retz, but only a soft-spoken Italian, with a slight frame,—no unnecessary bones or muscles,—long thin hands, and a sallow, womanish face, he applied to the all-powerful CondÉ for help. CondÉ effected a compromise with Gondi. So no more was heard of the obnoxious law at that particular time. But the parliament had, like a young lion, tasted blood in the way of power, liked it, and was not to be appeased. Spite of CondÉ, seditious edicts and offensive measures, all suggested by the Coadjutor, continued to be passed; and Mazarin shut himself up within four walls, fearing for his very life.

It is night and very dark; only a few ill-trimmed lamps placed on pulleys across the street, and under the signs of the various shops, at long distances from each other, cast a dim and flickering light. The unpaved streets are muddy and full of holes; a mob is collecting in the darkness between the Louvre, the Church of Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois, and the garden of the Palais Royal. It thickens every moment; group after group of men and some women emerge from the gloom. They pour down from Saint-Jacques and from Saint-Antoine, from the quays and the heart of the old Roman city about Notre-Dame and the HÔtel Dieu. They gather from all quarters. Before an hour has passed, a dense multitude, many thousands in number, are packed together. Those who stand under the dim lamps have a dogged, resolute look. All eyes are directed towards the Palais Royal, separated by a high wall from the street. The huge building rises up a gaunt mass before them. Not a light is to be seen at any of the windows; not a sentinel is visible, they are withdrawn within the postern. Threats and oaths and ribald jests pass from mouth to mouth loudly and without fear; savage cries and shouts of laughter ring along the silent streets. Anne of Austria, with her two sons, is within the palace. She is quite aware what is passing without. From an upper window, in a darkened room, she watches the citizens pressing closer and closer to the gates. From amid the tumult, groans and imprecations are now audible; the words reach her ears. "Where is the little King?" cries one. "We will see him!" shrieks another. "You fool! he is not here," answers a third, a smith, as black as his forge, from the slums of Saint-Antoine. "Why not? where should he be but at home?" another voice asks. "We will force the gates, and find him!" roars a stumpy man, with stentorian voice, shaking his fist, and struggling to the front. "Find him! where will you find him? he is in Spain," shouts one at his elbow. "Curses on the Italian priest!" howl many voices in horrible chorus. This cry excites the entire multitude to frenzy; it is taken up from all parts, and a volley of groans and curses for a time drowns all else. The crowd surges to and fro, like breakers on a rocky shore. Each moment it approaches nearer the palace. A tall spare man, an emissary of De Retz, who all along has taken an active part in inciting the people, seizes on the moment as propitious, and calls out in a loud voice, "Death to Mazarin!" Thousands re-echo, "Death to Mazarin!" With hideous gesticulations they throw their arms aloft; caps fly into the air; innumerable hands are clapped in savage applause. "Death to Mazarin!" passes down the lines of the long streets. It is heard at the crossways, and at every side alley and opening, dying away in the far distance into indistinct murmurs.

The Queen hears this death-cry standing at the darkened window, and trembles. Again the maddened people shout, "Death to Mazarin!" and again, "Death!" is echoed from afar. "He has spirited away our little Louis into Spain to kill him!" "He has murdered the Regent!" yells out the tall, spare man, forcing his way hither and thither. "Death to the traitor!" "To the gallows with all foreigners!" is the murderous response of the mob.

Fresh cries now arise, led by the tall, spare man with the powerful voice. "Vive Gondi, our noble bishop! We will have Gondi! the Queen shall choose Gondi, our Coadjutor!" "Come forth and answer to us, Dame Anne!" shrieks a woman's shrill voice, very near the palace, during a momentary lull. "Come forth, or we will break in and shoot you! Where is our Roi des Halles? Where is Beaufort? Come out to us, and speak like an honest woman! Let Beaufort free!—Give up your lover, Mazarin!" bellows a fat beldame from the Halles. "Give up the bon ami, and we will roast him at the GrÈve, and dance round the bonfire!" and hideous peals of laughter, yells, hisses, and imprecations rise out of the night. Then, growing impatient, the whole mass, with one accord, vociferate, "We will see the King! where is the King? Show us the little King, or we will set fire to the palace. The King! the King!"

A tremendous rush is made from behind; those in front fall down, screaming that they are killed; others trample upon their bodies. The gates are forced; the foremost find themselves within the court. Pushed on by the press from behind, they now stand under the colonnade, then beneath the portico, on past the Queen's Guards, who, commanded only to defend, not to attack, stand back, drawn swords in their hands, darkly eying the rioters. The lofty portals of the Palais Royal are wide open; there are lights within the ample hall. Beyond is the grand staircase, with gilded banisters. Finding no obstacle, the rioters mount the stairs. On the first landing a woman stands, immovable. It is the Queen. She is alone. She is pale, but betrays no fear. The rude intruders draw back, amazed at the vision of majesty and loveliness before them. Anne of Austria beckons to them to advance. She places her finger on her lip, commanding silence. The rabble, before so noisy, are instantly hushed as by a charm. Signing to the foremost to follow her, she leads the way, through sumptuous chambers and vaulted galleries, to the King's sleeping-room. She approaches his little bed of gilt lattice-work, and gently drawing aside the lace curtains, displays Louis XIV. in the sound and tranquil sleep of childhood. The citizen Frondeurs are satisfied. The mothers bless his baby face and rich auburn curls. The men contemplate the Queen with awe. She stands beside the bed, surveying them with royal unconcern. When they have stared their full at the little King and at her, those who have already entered turn back. No others dare approach. Ashamed and silent, they retreat across the halls and through sculptured galleries in a very different spirit to that in which they came.

Anne of Austria grows more and more devout. She spends long hours in her oratory, prostrate before an image of the Magdalene. She often retires to the Val de GrÂce, where she has built a splendid church, as a thank-offering for the birth of her sons. For days together she wears closely fitting serge dresses, buttoned up to the throat, like a lay nun. She fasts, and chastises herself with a severity proper alike to a sinner or a saint.

Yet there are whispers, and confidences, and anecdotes touching her intimacy with Cardinal Mazarin, not quite in accordance with such excessive austerity.

It is a liaison too public for intrigue, uneasy enough for marriage!

The constant reproaches she addresses to her ladies in waiting for their lack of devotion, tends rather to enrage than to edify these pretty sinners. Mademoiselle de Pons, with a smile and a toss of the head, draws Mademoiselle de la Mothe into a corner, and repeats some hard words the Queen has spoken to her. Mademoiselle de Hautefort, of a quick, impulsive temperament, is continually either in a passion or in tears. The Duchesse de Chevreuse is usually grave, and more silent than she ever was before. The Duchesse de Noailles, lady of the bedchamber, her attendance at the Palais Royal over, orders her coach, and, in company with the Duchesse de SennÉcy, returns home to her hÔtel in the Place Royale, in a very bad humour. Here a party of ladies, "her nineteen bosom friends," are awaiting her arrival. They are all eager for gossip, and all pledged to a vow of eternal secrecy, a promise they will keep as long as the retailer of the scandal is speaking. Coffee has been handed round in delicate cups of Oriental porcelain. Bonbons and cakes, served on trays of gold repoussÉ, have been discussed; the ladies lean back in their chairs, to listen with greater ease. Then the Duchesse de Noailles, addressing herself particularly to Madame de SennÉcy and a certain Comtesse de Lude, remarkable for a thin pinched face and a very red nose, begins.