The Forty-Five Guardsmen | Page 3

contrary of what you think I
think, why are you not at the Place de Greve? I thought the spectacle
would have been a joyful one to all friends of the king. Perhaps you
will reply that you are not friends of the king; but of MM. de Guise,
and that you are waiting here for the Lorraines, who they say are about
to enter Paris in order to deliver M. de Salcede."
"No, monsieur," replied the little man, visibly frightened at this
suggestion; "I wait for my wife, Nicole Friard, who has gone to take
twenty-four tablecloths to the priory of the Jacobins, having the honor
to be washerwoman to Dom. Modeste Gorenflot, the abbe."
"Look, compere," cried Miton, "at what is passing."

M. Friard, following the direction of his friend's finger, saw them
closing yet another door, while a party of Swiss placed themselves
before it. "How! more barriers!" cried he.
"What did I tell you?" said Miton.
At the sight of this new precaution, a long murmur of astonishment and
some cries of discontent proceeded from the crowd.
"Clear the road! Back!" cried an officer.
This maneuver was not executed without difficulty; the people in carts
and on horseback tried to go back, and nearly crushed the crowd behind
them. Women cried and men swore, while those who could escape, did,
overturning the others.
"The Lorraines! the Lorraines!" cried a voice in the midst of this
tumult.
"Oh!" cried Miton, trembling, "let us fly."
"Fly! and where?" said Friard.
"Into this inclosure," answered Miton tearing his hands by seizing the
thorns of the hedge.
"Into that inclosure, it is not so easy. I see no opening, and you cannot
climb a hedge that is higher than I am."
"I will try," returned Miton, making new efforts.
"Oh! take care, my good woman," cried Friard, in a tone of distress;
"your ass is on my feet. Oh, monsieur, take care, your horse is going to
kick."
While M. Miton was vainly trying to climb the hedge, and M. Friard to
find an opening through which to push himself, their neighbor quietly
opened his long legs and strode over the hedge with as much ease as
one might have leaped it on horseback. M. Miton imitated him at last

after much detriment to his hands and clothes; but poor Friard could not
succeed, in spite of all his efforts, till the stranger, stretching out his
long arms, and seizing him by the collar of his doublet, lifted him over.
"Ah! monsieur," said he, when he felt himself on the ground, "on the
word of Jean Friard, you are a real Hercules; your name, monsieur? the
name of my deliverer?"
"I am called Briquet--Robert Briquet, monsieur."
"You have saved me, M. Briquet--my wife will bless you. But apropos;
mon Dieu! she will be stifled in this crowd. Ah! cursed Swiss, only
good to crush people!"
As he spoke, he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and, looking round
and seeing that it was a Swiss, he took to flight, followed by Miton.
The other man laughed quietly, then turning to the Swiss, said:
"Are the Lorraines coming?"
"No."
"Then why do they close the door. I do not understand it."
"There is no need that you should," replied the Swiss, laughing at his
own wit.


CHAPTER II.
WHAT PASSED OUTSIDE THE PORTE ST. ANTOINE.
One of the groups was formed of a considerable number of citizens.
They surrounded four or five of a martial appearance, whom the
closing of the doors annoyed very much, as it seemed, for they cried
with all their might, "The door! the door!"

Robert Briquet advanced toward this group, and began to cry also, "The
door! the door!"
One of the cavaliers, charmed at this, turned toward him and said, "Is it
not shameful, monsieur, that they should close the gates in open day, as
though the Spaniards or the English were besieging Paris?"
Robert Briquet looked attentively at the speaker, who seemed to be
about forty-five years of age, and the principal personage in the group.
"Yes, monsieur," replied he, "you are right: but may I venture to ask
what you think their motive is for these precautions?"
"Pardieu! the fear they have lest some one should eat their Salcede."
"Diable!" said a voice, "a sad meal."
Robert Briquet turned toward the speaker, whose voice had a strong
Gascon accent, and saw a young man from twenty to twenty-five,
resting his hand on the crupper of the horse of the first speaker. His
head was bare; he had probably lost his hat in the melée.
"But as they say," replied Briquet, "that this Salcede belongs to M. de
Guise--"
"Bah! they say that!"
"Then you do not believe it, monsieur?"
"Certainly not," replied the