‘tis too true,” said Comminges, “‘tis almost a prison; but what a singular fancy this is of yours, count — you, who are the very flower of our nobility — to squander your valor and loyalty amongst these upstarts, the Frondists! Really, count, if ever I thought that I had a friend in the ranks of the royal army, it was you. A Frondeur! you, the Comte de la Fere, on the side of Broussel, Blancmesnil and Viole!

For shame! you, a Frondeur!”

“On my word of honor,” said Athos, “one must be either a Mazarinist or a Frondeur. For a long time I had these words whispered in my ears, and I chose the latter; at any rate, it is a French word. And now, I am a Frondeur — not of Broussel’s party, nor of Blancmesnil’s, nor am I