"The civic guard on horseback! Every one for himself!"
Pillagers and destroyers interrupted their business.
The platoon approached at a gallop. At a hundred meters distance from the rabble the captain, Van Frans the banker, an old friend of the Dobouziez family, ordered a halt.
All rich men and the sons of rich men, parade soldiers only, they were proud of their handsome dark green uniform, of their silver-buttoned tunics and black brandenburgs, of their trousers with the amaranthine stripe, of their astrachan knapsacks with the red shoulder-straps and silver tassels. Their mounts had shabracks matching the uniform, on the corners of which were embroidered silver bugles, and an ordonnance cloak was rolled up on the front of the saddles.
Pale, excited, their eyes glistening, they made their horses wheel and paw the ground. Seeing that they had stopped, the rioters were emboldened to mock them. "Cardboard soldiers! Buffoons! Sunday cavaliers!" Laurent recognized Athanasius and Gaston Saint-Fardier, and heard the former, who was pushing his horse forward, say to Van Frans: "Are we never going to charge that rabble, Captain?" In passing through the Avenue des Arts the two brothers had seen the havoc wrought upon their father's house, and burned with impatience to avenge the affront.
Until now the service of this honorary squadron had been a recreation, a simple sport, a pretext for walks and excursions and parties in the country. It was not the fault of the handsome dilettante in uniform that these loafers forced them to take themselves seriously.
"Draw … sabres!" commanded Van Frans in a slightly trembling voice. And the virgin swords, drawn
