Ten Years Later by Dumas, Alexandre. Part two

the Greve, several men, barricaded behind the gate of

communication with the garden, replaced their swords in

their sheaths, assisted one among them to mount a ready

saddled horse which was waiting in the garden, and like a

flock of startled birds, fled in all directions, some

climbing the walls, others rushing out at the gates with all

the fury of a panic. He who mounted the horse, and gave him

the spur so sharply that the animal was near leaping the

wall, this cavalier, we say, crossed the Place Baudoyer,

passed like lightning before the crowd in the streets,

riding against, running over and knocking down all that came

in his way, and, ten minutes after, arrived at the gates of

the superintendent, more out of breath than his horse. The

Abbe Fouquet, at the clatter of the hoofs on the pavement,

appeared at a window of the court, and before even the

cavalier had set foot to the ground, “Well! Danecamp?” cried

he, leaning half out of the window.

“Well, it is all over,” replied the cavalier.

“All over!” cried the abbe. “Then they are saved?”

“No, monsieur,” replied the cavalier, “they are hung.”

“Hung!” repeated the abbe, turning pale. A lateral door

suddenly opened, and Fouquet appeared in the chamber, pale,

distracted, with lips half opened, breathing a cry of grief

and anger. He stopped upon the threshold to listen to what

was addressed from the court to the window.

“Miserable wretches!” said the abbe. “you did not fight,

then?”

“Like lions.”

“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 —- ”

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Dumas, Alexandre – Ten Years Later

“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 —- ”

“Obey, monsieur!”

The abbe made a sign, and in half a minute the man’s step

was heard upon the stairs. At the same time Gourville

appeared behind Fouquet, like the guardian angel of the

superintendent, pressing one finger on his lips to enjoin

observation even amidst the bursts of his grief. The

minister resumed all the serenity that human strength left

at the disposal of a heart half broken with sorrow. Danecamp

appeared. “Make your report,” said Gourville.

“Monsieur,” replied the messenger, “we received orders to

carry off the prisoners, and to cry `Vive Colbert!’ whilst

carrying them off.”

“To burn them alive, was it not, abbe?” interrupted

Gourville.

“Yes, yes, the order was given to Menneville. Menneville

knew what was to be done, and Menneville is dead.”

This news appeared rather to reassure Gourville than to

sadden him.

“Yes, certainly to burn them alive,” said the abbe, eagerly.

“Granted, monsieur, granted,” said the man, looking into the

eyes and the faces of the two interlocutors, to ascertain

what there was profitable or disadvantageous to himself in

telling the truth.

“Now, proceed,” said Gourville.

“The prisoners,” cried Danecamp, “were brought to the Greve,

and the people, in a fury, insisted upon their being burnt

instead of being hung.”

“And the people were right,” said the abbe. “Go on.”

“But,” resumed the man, “at the moment the archers were

broken, at the moment the fire was set to one of the houses

of the Place destined to serve as a funeral-pile for the

guilty, this fury, this demon, this giant of whom I told