“Let them pass; they are friends.”

The carriage resumed its course, and Mazarin, who had held his breath, ventured to breathe again.

“Bricconi!” muttered he.

A few steps in advance of the gate of Saint Honore they met a third troop; this latter party was composed of ill-looking fellows, who resembled bandits more than anything else; they were the men of the beggar of Saint Eustache.

“Attention, Porthos!” cried D’Artagnan.

Porthos placed his hand on the pistols.

“What is it?” asked Mazarin.

“My lord, I think we are in bad company.”