e meantime Cournet was well aware that on arriving he would be shot
in the very courtyard of the Prefecture. He had resolved not to go
there.

At a turning in the Rue St Antoine he glanced behind, and noticed that
the _sergents de ville_ only followed the _fiacre_ at a considerable
distance.

Not one of the four men which the _fiacre_ was bearing away had as yet
opened their lips.

Cournet threw a meaning look at his two companions seated in front of
him, as much as to say, "We are three; let us take advantage of this to
escape." Both answered by an imperceptible movement of the eyes, which
pointed out the street full of passers-by, and which said, "No."

A few moments afterwards the _fiacre_ emerged from the Rue St. Antoine,
and entered the Rue de Fourcy. The Rue de Fourcy is usually deserted, no
one was passing down it at that moment.

Cournet turned suddenly to the police spy, and asked him,--

"Have you a warrant for my arrest?"

"No; but I have my card."

And he drew his police agent's card out of his pocket, and showed it to
Cournet. Then the following dialogue ensued between these two men,--

"This is not regular."

"What does that matter to me?"

"You have no right to arrest me."

"All the same, I arrest you."

"Look here; is it money that you want? Do you wish for any? I have some
with me; let me escape."

"A gold nugget as big as your head would not tempt me. You are my finest
capture, Citizen Cournet."

"Where are you taking me to?"

"To the Prefecture."

"They will shoot me there?"

"Possibly."

"And my two comrades?"

"I do not say 'No.'"

"I will not go."

"You will go, nevertheless."

"I tell you I will not go," exclaimed Cournet.

And with a movement, unexpected as a flash of lightning, he seized the
police spy by the throat.

The police agent could not utter a cry, he struggled: a hand of bronze
clutched him.

His tongue protruded from his mouth, his eyes became hideous, and
started from their sockets. Suddenly his head sank down, and reddish
froth rose from his throat to his lips. He was dead.

Huy and Lorrain, motionless, and as though themselves thunderstruck,
gazed at this gloomy deed.

They did not utter a word. They did not move a limb. The _fiacre_ was
still driving on.

"Open the door!" Cournet cried to them.

They did not stir, they seemed to have become stone.

Cournet, whose thumb was closely pressed in the neck of the wretched
police spy, tried to