BRICHANTEAU.
Hell take this eminence!
Is't not enough to manage everything?
To rule our soldiers, finances, and us,
Without controlling our poor language too?
BOUCHAVANNES.
Down with this Richelieu, who flatters, kills:
Man of the red hand and the scarlet robe!
ROCHEBARON.
Of what use is the King?
BRICHANTEAU.
In darkness, we—
That is the people—march: eyes on a torch.
He is the torch: the King's the lantern which
In its bright glass protects the flame from wind.
BOUCHAVANNES.
Oh, could our swords blow such a wind some day
As to extinguish this devouring fire!