"Down with Mazarin!" responded our opponents defiantly, and surrounding Condé forced him against his will to retire.
Meanwhile our musketeers, swarming into the houses, maintained an incessant and destructive fire, The rebels in their turn lost heart, and even their leader's matchless courage could hardly keep them at their posts. A cheer on the right announced our success in that quarter, and presently arose an answering cry from the left. The three divisions had fought their way to the open space, and unless the Parisians unbolted the gate the rebel army was doomed. Paris was at their backs, we were in front, and they could not break through us.
A band of their leaders held the last barricade with heroic courage. Separated from all their friends, they were in desperate plight; yet they blenched not. One after another they fell grievously wounded, and some among them bore the highest names in France. It was a pitiful sight, yet they refused to surrender, though Turenne, I am certain, would gladly have spared them. Presently Condé, who had meanwhile been endeavouring to stem the tide of battle elsewhere, observed their plight, and, collecting a band of devoted adherents, made a gallant attempt at rescue.
Raoul, evidently thinking this a fine opportunity to seize the prince, spurred into the open; I raced after him quickly, others followed, and crying, "Down with Condé!" charged in a body at the princely rebel.
While some of his friends rescued the survivors at the barricade, the others rode in our direction. With a ringing cheer we sprang at them, struck out furiously right and left, spurred our horses into the throng, pierced it in every direction, till finally it fell apart. Disdaining meaner foes, Raoul rode at the prince, engaging him in deadly combat. He still wore the King's gift on his breast, and fought as if he were the monarch's sole champion. Whether he was Condé's equal in swordsmanship I cannot say, but he kept the prince well employed.
Suddenly, as they fought, the roar of La Ferté's guns broke out, and we had the enemy at our mercy. Condé, as if recognising this, began to withdraw, and Raoul was pressing on more vigorously when a rebel horseman, spurring toward the gate, cut him down. I saw the tragedy distinctly, but could do no more than utter a warning cry, which, alas, my comrade did not hear.
How the Parisians by opening the gate and letting the rebels through robbed us of victory, the world knows, but at the moment I cared little. All my hopes and fears were centred in Raoul, and, heedless of the dropping bullets, I rode across to the spot where he lay. He was in terrible pain, stricken I feared unto death, but his wonderful courage remained unbroken, and he did not even murmur when, with the assistance of some trusty comrades, I carried him to one of the empty houses.
The fight was over now; Condé's troops had escaped into the city; the sullen roar of the guns died away; men thought only of succouring the wounded who dotted the ground in large numbers. A kindly surgeon, hearing of Raoul's plight, hurried to the room where we had placed him, but at the first glance he shook his head sorrowfully, and I knew there was no hope.
"An hour, or two at the most," he whispered to me. "The best physician in France could do no more than ease his pain."
He did what he could and went his way, for there were many who needed his services; the soldiers, too, had departed, and I alone remained to watch my friend die. Very still, and with closed eyes he lay, but his breathing was laboured, and from time to time a hoarse rattle sounded in his throat. Presently his eyes opened, and he looked at me with a faint smile. Then pointing to the King's star, he whispered, "For Marie," and I, not trusting myself to speak, bowed my head.