M.
D'Artagnan.

Whilst this violent, noisy, and bloody scene was passing on 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----"

"Be silent, abbe! be silent!" cried Fouquet;