I begged M. de Brissac, a gentleman of the Duc de Bouillon, and formerly a captain in St. Lacy's dragoons, who was riding beside the King, to mention that a courier had arrived from the army; and my request—or the words of it—spread like wildfire.
'A courier from the army?' said one.
'Which army—we have five in the field?' asked a second.
'The army of the Rhine,' replied a third.
'From Italy, I believe,' said M. de Brissac.
'Ah!' exclaimed the Duc de St. Simon; 'from the Marechal Duc de Crecqui?'
'Has he taken Parma from the Spaniards?'
'Yes—of course. Parbleu! 'tis glorious.'
'Parma is taken. Vive le Marechal Duc de Crecqui!'
Thus, amid confused shouts and blowing of horns, I found myself standing uncovered beside the stirrup of the timid and querulous king, who was in the act of opening a long despatch, which had just been handed to him by another officer, who, as De Brissac told me, had just arrived from the Duc de Rohan; and in this officer, who had preceded me by three minutes, I recognized my countryman the young Earl of Irvine, a colonel of foot. He looked pale, thin, and emaciated, for his right hand had been shot off.