Steps approached, stopped; then the key turned in the lock, and the door slowly opened.
During this fleeting moment, Maurice had said to himself,—
"If I do not strike at once, I am a dead man. If I throw myself upon the assassins, I take them unawares—gain first the garden, then the street, and am saved!"
Immediately, with the spring of a lion, and uttering a fierce cry which savored more of menace than terror, he threw down the first two men, who believing him bound and blindfolded were quite unprepared for such an assault, scattered the others, took a tremendous leap over them, thanks to his iron muscles, saw at the end of the corridor a door leading into the garden wide open, rushed toward it, cleared at a bound six steps, found himself in the garden, and guessing his whereabouts as nearly as possible, rushed toward the gate. It was secured by a lock and a couple of bolts. Maurice drew back the bolts, tried to open the lock; but it had no key.
In the mean time his pursuers, who had reached the steps, perceived him.
"There he is!" cried they; "fire upon him, Dixmer, fire! Kill him—kill him!"
Maurice uttered a groan; he was enclosed in the garden; he measured the walls with his eye—they were ten feet in height.
All this passed in a moment. The assassins rushed forward in pursuit.
Maurice was about thirty paces in advance; he looked about him with the air of a condemned man who seeks the shadow of a chance to save himself. He perceived the turret, the blind, and behind the blind the light.
He made but one bound,—a bound of six feet,—seized the blind, tore it down, passed through the window, smashing it, and alighted in a chamber where a lady sat reading.