M. de Turenne drew his sword, and said to me, with the calm and undisturbed air he commonly puts on when he calls for his dinner, or gives battle, “Come, let us go and see who they are.”

“Whom should we see?” said I, for I believed we had all lost our senses.

He answered, “I verily think they are devils.”

When we had advanced five or six steps I began to see something which I thought looked like a long procession of black phantoms.  I was frightened at first, because of the sudden reflection that I had often wished to see a spirit, and that now, perhaps, I should pay for my incredulity, or rather curiosity.  M. de Turenne was all the while calm and resolute.  I made two or three leaps towards the procession, upon which the company in the coach, thinking we were fighting with all the devils, cried out most terribly; yet it is a question whether our company was in a greater fright than the imaginary devils that put us into it, who, it seems, were a parcel of barefooted reformed Augustine friars, otherwise called the Black Capuchins, who, seeing two men advancing towards them with drawn swords, one of them, detached from the fraternity, cried out, “Gentlemen, we are poor, harmless friars, only come to bathe in this river for our healths.”  M. de Turenne and I went back to the coach ready to die with laughing at this adventure.

Upon the whole we could not help making this reflection, that what we read in the lives of most people is false.  We were both grossly mistaken, I, for supposing him to be frightened; he, for thinking me calm and undisturbed.  Who, therefore, can write truth better than the man who has experienced it?  The President de Thou is very just in his remark when he says that “There is no true history extant, nor can be ever expected unless written by honest men who are not afraid or ashamed to tell the truth of themselves.”  I do not pretend to make any merit of my sincerity in this case, for I feel so great a satisfaction in unfolding my very heart and soul to you, that the pleasure is even more prevalent than reason with me in the religious regard I have to the exactness of my history.

Mademoiselle de Vendome had ever after an inconceivable contempt for the poor Comte de Brion, who in this ridiculous adventure had disclosed a weakness never before imagined; and as soon as we were got into the coach she bantered him, and said, particularly to me: 

“I fancy I must be Henri IV.’s granddaughter by the esteem I have for valour.  There’s nothing can frighten you, since you were so undaunted on this extraordinary occasion.”

I told her I was afraid, but being not so devout as M. de Brion, my fears did not turn to litanies.

“You feared not,” said she, “and I fancy you do not believe there are devils, for M. de Turenne, who is very brave, was much surprised, and did not march on so briskly as you.”

I confess the distinction pleased me mightily and made me think of venturing some compliments.  I then said to her, “One may believe there is a devil and yet not fear him; there are things in the world more terrible.”