“No, monsieur,” replied the cavalier, “they are hung.”
“Hung!” repeated the abbe, turning pale. A lateral door suddenly opened, and Fouquet appeared in the chamber, pale, distracted, with lips half opened, breathing a cry of grief and anger. He stopped upon the threshold to listen to what was addressed from the court to the window.
“Miserable wretches!” said the abbe, “you did not fight, then?”
“Like lions.”
“Say like cowards.”
“Monsieur!”
“A hundred men accustomed to war, sword in hand, are worth ten thousand archers in a surprise. Where is Menneville, that boaster, that braggart, who was to come back either dead or a conqueror?”
“Well, monsieur, he kept his word. He is dead!”
“Dead! Who killed him?”
“A demon disguised as a man, a giant armed with ten flaming swords—a madman, who at one blow extinguished the fire, put down the riot, and caused a hundred musketeers to rise up out of the pavement of the Greve.”