“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 has 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.”
Fouquet raised his brow, streaming with sweat, murmuring, “Oh! Lyodot and D’Eymeris! dead! dead! dead! and I dishonored.”
The abbe turned round, and perceiving his brother, despairing and livid, “Come, come,” said he, “it is a blow of fate, monsieur; we must not lament thus. Our attempt has failed, because God——”
“Be silent, abbe! be silent!” cried Fouquet; “your excuses are blasphemies. Order that man up here, and let him relate the details of this terrible event.”
“But, brother——”