ering as they pleased;
the soldiers quarrelled among themselves; the nobles fought in the
public places, unsheathing their swords even in the Parliament House.
Thoroughly wearied of this meaningless strife, I longed for a strong
man, such as our present most gracious King has proved, who should whip
these snarling dogs back to their kennels.

One evening I sat at my window looking into the street below. The
inhabitants of the Rue des Catonnes were having fine doings. From one
end to the other they swarmed--a heaving mass of excited humanity. It
was plain that a crisis had arrived. Paris was in rebellion, but
against whom or what not one in a thousand knew or cared. For the
moment the people were masters, and they made the most of their
opportunity.

I watched their antics in amazement. Costly furniture, handsome
brocades, rich tapestry and gorgeous hangings littered the street.
Grimy, unwashed ruffians swaggered about in clothes costly with lace,
and plumed hats, some even carrying swords. They were in the merriest
humour imaginable, but I knew well that a chance word might change
their mirth into madness.

"They have plundered some nobleman's house," I muttered. "I wonder who
the victim is?"

I was still sitting at the window when the tramp of horses' feet
sounded in the distance, and presently D'Artagnan appeared at the end
of the street with a body of cavalry. For a minute or two it seemed as
if the rioters would oppose his progress, but, having no leader, and
perhaps being in no mood for a fight, they began to slink away by ones
and twos into the houses. A few lingered half defiantly, but obtaining
no support from their fellows, they also disappeared, and not a blow
was struck as the soldiers rode through the street.

"Bravo!" I exclaimed, "the mischief may be stamped out yet. I wonder
if the other quarters are quiet," and, buckling on my sword, I crossed
the room just as a man in dishevelled dress rushed panting up the
stairs.

I gazed at my unexpected visitor in amazement and rubbed my eyes. Were
they playing me false? No! It was Pillot sure enough, and he was
gasping for breath. Why had he come to me?

"Just in time, monsieur," he stammered as he leaned against the wall to
recover.

"What is it?" I exclaimed. "What do you want? Quick, I am in a hurry."

"Wait, monsieur. Listen; you must! I ran all the way to the Rue
Crillon, but you were not there."

"The Rue Crillon?" I interrupt