“Parbleu!” said Montresor, advancing, “here’s the Abbe, who quite justifies you.”
And, in fact, little Gondi, pushing on among the light horsemen, was shouting, at the top of his voice: “Three duels and an assault. I hope to get rid of my cassock at last!”
Saying this, he cut and thrust at a tall Spaniard.
The defence was not long. The Castilian soldiers were no match for the French officers, and not one of them had time or courage to recharge his carbine.
“Gentlemen, we will relate this to our mistresses in Paris,” said Locmaria, throwing his hat into the air; and Cinq-Mars, De Thou, Coislin, De Mouy, Londigny, officers of the red companies, and all the young noblemen, with swords in their right hands and pistols in their left, dashing, pushing, and doing each other by their eagerness as much harm as they did the enemy, finally rushed upon the platform of the bastion, as water poured from a vase, of which the opening is too small, leaps out in interrupted gushes.
Disdaining to occupy themselves with the vanquished soldiers, who cast themselves at their feet, they left them to look about the fort, without even disarming them, and began to examine their conquest, like schoolboys in vacation, laughing with all their hearts, as if they were at a pleasure-party.
A Spanish officer, enveloped in his brown cloak, watched them with a sombre air.
“What demons are these, Ambrosio?” said he to a soldier. “I never have met with any such before in France. If Louis XIII has an entire army thus composed, it is very good of him not to conquer all Europe.”
“Oh, I do not believe they are very numerous; they must be some poor adventurers, who have nothing to lose and all to gain by pillage.”
“You are right,” said the officer; “I will try to persuade one of them to let me escape.”