The circumstances that had hastened the return of D’Artagnan to Paris were as follows:  
One evening, when Mazarin, according to custom, went to visit the queen, in passing the guard- he heard loud voices; wishing to know on what topic the soldiers were , he approached with his wonted wolf-like step, pushed open the door and put his head close to the chink.
 
There was a dispute among the guards.
 
“I tell you,” one of them was saying, “that if Coysel predicted that, ‘tis as good as true; I know nothing about it, but I have heard say that he’s not only an astrologer, but a magician.”
 
“Deuce take it, friend, if he’s one of thy friends thou ruin him in saying so.”
 
“Why?”
 
“Because he may be tried for it.”
 
“Ah! absurd! they don’t burn sorcerers nowadays.”
 
“No? ‘Tis not a long time since the late burnt Urban Grandier, though.”
 
“My friend, Urban Grandier wasn’t a sorcerer, he was a learned man. He didn’t predict the future, he knew the past--often a more dangerous thing.”
 
Mazarin nodded an , but wishing to know what this prediction was, about which they disputed, he remained in the same place.
 
“I don’t say,” resumed the guard, “that Coysel is not a sorcerer, but I say that if his prophecy gets wind, it’s a sure way to prevent it’s coming true.”
 
“How so?”
 
“Why, in this way: if Coysel says loud enough for the cardinal to hear him, on such or such a day such a prisoner will escape, ‘tis plain that the cardinal will take measures of precaution and that the prisoner will not escape.”
 
“Good Lord!” said another guard, who might have been thought asleep on a bench, but who had lost not a of the conversation, “do you suppose that men can escape their destiny? If it is written yonder, in Heaven, that the Duc de Beaufort is to escape, he will escape; and all the precautions of the cardinal will not prevent it.”
 
Mazarin started. He was an Italian and therefore . He walked straight into the midst of the guards, who on seeing him were silent.
 
“What were you saying?” he asked with his flattering manner; “that Monsieur de Beaufort had escaped, were you not?”
 
“Oh, no, my lord!” said the incredulous soldier. “He’s well guarded now; we only said he would escape.”
 
“Who said so?”
 
“Repeat your story, Saint Laurent,” replied the man, turning to the originator of the tale.
 
“My lord,” said the guard, “I have simply mentioned the prophecy I heard from a man named Coysel, who believes that, be he ever so closely watched and guarded, the Duke of Beaufort will escape before Whitsuntide.”
 
“Coysel is a madman!” returned the cardinal.
 
“No,” replied the soldier, in his credulity; “he has many things which have come to pass; for instance, that the queen would have a son; that Monsieur Coligny would be killed in a with the Duc de ; and finally, that the coadjutor would be made cardinal. Well! the queen has not only one son, but two; then, Monsieur de Coligny was killed, and----”
 
“Yes,” said Mazarin, “but the coadjutor is not yet made cardinal!”
 
“No, my lord, but he will be,” answered the guard.
 
Mazarin made a , as if he meant to say, “But he does not wear the cardinal’s cap;” then he added:
 
“So, my friend, it’s your opinion that Monsieur de Beaufort will escape?”
 
“That’s my idea, my lord; and if your were to offer to make me at this moment governor of the castle of Vincennes, I should refuse it. After Whitsuntide it would be another thing.”
 
There is nothing so convincing as a firm conviction. It has its own effect upon the most incredulous; and far from being incredulous, Mazarin was superstitious. He went away thoughtful and anxious and returned to his own room, where he summoned Bernouin and desired him to fetch in the morning the special guard he had placed over Monsieur de Beaufort and to him whenever he should arrive.
 
The guard had, in fact, touched the cardinal in the tenderest point. During the whole five years in which the Duc de Beaufort had been in prison not a day had passed in which the cardinal had not felt a secret of his escape. It was not possible, as he knew well, to confine for the whole of his life the grandson of Henry IV., especially when this young prince was scarcely thirty years of age. But however and whensoever he did escape, what he must cherish against him to whom he owed his long ; who had taken him, rich, brave, glorious, beloved by women, feared by men, to cut off his life’s best, happiest years; for it is not life, it is merely existence, in prison! Meantime, Mazarin redoubled his surveillance over the duke. But like the in the , he could not sleep for thinking of his treasure. Often he awoke in the night, suddenly, dreaming that he had been robbed of Monsieur de Beaufort. Then he inquired about him and had the vexation of hearing that the prisoner played, drank, sang, but that whilst playing, drinking, singing, he often stopped short to that Mazarin should pay dear for all the amusements he had forced him to enter into at Vincennes.
 
So much did this one idea haunt the cardinal even in his sleep, that when at seven in the morning Bernouin came to arouse him, his fir............