But at the word M. Étienne emerged from the shadows.
"Who lives?" he called out. "You, Félix?"
"Not hurt, monsieur. And you?"
"Not a scratch. Nor did I scratch my man. Permit me to congratulate you,
monsieur l'inconnu, on our coming up when we did."
The unknown said one word:
"Étienne!"
I sprang forward with the impulse to throw my arms about him, in the
pure rapture of recognizing his voice. This struggler, whom we had
rushed in, blindfold, to save, was Monsieur! If we had been content to
mind our own business, had sheered away like the deputy--it turned me
faint to think how long we had delayed with old Marceau, we were so
nearly too late. I wanted to seize Monsieur, to convince myself that he
was all safe, to feel him quick and warm.
I made one pace and stopped; for I remembered what ghastly shape stood
between me and Monsieur--that horrible lying story.
"Dieu!" gasped M. Étienne, "Monsieur!"
For a moment we all kept silence, motionless; then Monsieur flung his
sword over the wall.
"Do your will, Étienne."
His son darted forward with a cry.
"Monsieur, Monsieur, I am not your assassin! I came to your aid not
dreaming who you were; but, had I known, I would have fought a hundred
times the harder. I never plotted against you. On the honour of a St.
Quentin I swear it."
Monsieur said naught, and we could not see his face; could not know
whether he believed or rejected, softened or condemned.