corner. It was a night-light
placed at the foot of the stairs, on a little table which showed
through the frail branches of a palm tree.
"Halt!" whispered Valmeras.
Near the night-light, a man stood sentry, carrying a gun.
Had he seen them? Perhaps. At least, something must have alarmed him,
for he brought the gun to his shoulder.
Beautrelet had fallen on his knees, against a tub containing a plant,
and he remained quite still, with his heart thumping against his chest.
Meanwhile, the silence and the absence of all movement reassured the
man. He lowered his weapon. But his head was still turned in the
direction of the tub.
Terrible minutes passed: ten minutes, fifteen. A moonbeam had glided
through a window on the staircase. And, suddenly, Beautrelet became
aware that the moonbeam was shifting imperceptibly, and that, before
fifteen, before ten more minutes had elapsed, it would be shining full
in his face.
Great drops of perspiration fell from his forehead on his trembling
hands. His anguish was such that he was on the point of getting up and
running away--But, remembering that Valmeras was there, he sought him
with his eyes and was astounded to see him, or rather to imagine him,
creeping in the dark, under cover of the statues and plants. He was
already at the foot of the stairs, within a few steps of the man.
What was he going to do? To pass in spite of all? To go upstairs alone
and release the prisoner? But could he pass?
Beautrelet no longer saw him and he had an impression that something
was about to take place, something that seemed foreboded also by the
silence, which hung heavier, more awful than before.
And, suddenly, a shadow springing upon the man, the night-light
extinguished, the sound of a struggle--Beautrelet ran up. The two
bodies had rolled over on the flagstones. He tried to stoop and see.
But he heard a hoarse moan, a sigh; and one of the adversaries rose to
his feet and seized him by the arm:
"Quick!--Come along!"
It was Valmeras.
They went up two storys and came out at the entrance to a corridor,
covered by a hanging.
"To the right," whispered Valmeras. "The fourth room on the left."
They soon found the door of the room. As they expected, the captive was
locked in. It took them half an hour, half an hour of stifled efforts,
of muffled attempts, to force open the lock. The door yielded at last.
Beautrelet groped his way to the bed. His father was asleep.
He wo
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