"I 've got him," remarked the Captain simply, and he began to pace leisurely and warily down the hill. He was ready for a shot now—ready to give one too, if necessary. But his luck was again in the ascendant; he smiled and twirled his moustache as he walked along.
If it be pardonable—or even praise-worthy, as some moralists assert—to pity the criminal, while righteously hating the crime, a trifle of compassion may be spared for Paul de Roustache. In fact that gentleman had a few hours before arrived at a resolution which must be considered (for as a man hath, so shall it be demanded of him, in talents and presumably in virtues also) distinctly commendable. He had made up his mind to molest the Countess of Fieramondi no more—provided he got the fifty thousand francs from M. Guillaume. Up to this moment fortune—or, in recognition of the morality of the idea, may we not say heaven?—had favoured his design. Obliged, in view of Paul's urgently expressed preference for a payment on account, to disburse five thousand francs, Guillaume had taken from his pocket a leather case of venerable age and opulent appearance. Paul was no more averse than Dieppe from taking a good chance. The production of the portfolio was the signal for a rapid series of decisive actions; for was not Dieppe inside the hut, and might not Dieppe share or even engross the contents of the portfolio? With the promptness of a man who has thoroughly thought out his plans, Paul had flung away the lantern, hit Guillaume on the forehead with the butt of his revolver, snatched the portfolio from his hand, and bolted up the slope that led from the hut to the summit; thence he ran down the road, not enjoying leisure to examine his prize, but sure that it contained more than the bare ten thousand francs for which he had modestly bargained. A humane man, he reflected, would stay by Guillaume, bathe his brow, and nurse him back to health; for with a humane man life is more than property; and meanwhile the property, with Paul as its protector, would be far away. But now—well, in the first place, Dieppe was evidently not a humane man, and in the second, here was this pestilent river flooded to the edge of its banks, and presenting the most doubtful passage which had ever by the mockery of language been misnamed a ford. He was indeed between the devil and the deep sea—that devil of a Dieppe and the deep sea of the ford on the road from Sasellano. What was to be done?
The days of chivalry are gone; and the days of hanging or beheading for unnecessary or unjustified homicide are with us, to the great detriment of romance. Paul, like the Captain, did not desire a duel, although, like the Captain, he proposed to keep his revolver handy. And, after all, what was called a ford must be at least comparatively shallow. Give it a foot of depth in ordinary times. Let it be three or four now. Still he could get across. With one last look at the Captain, who advanced steadily, although very slowly, Paul de Roustache essayed the passage. The precious portfolio was in an inner pocket, the hardly less precious revolver he grasped in one hand; and both his hands he held half outstretched on either side of him. The Captain watched his progress with the keenest interest and a generous admiration, and quickened his own pace so as to be in a position to follow the daring pioneer as rapidly as possible.
As far as depth was concerned, Paul's calculation was not far out. He travelled a third of his way and felt the ground level under him. He had reached the bottom of the river-bed, and the water was not up to his armpits. He took out the portfolio and thrust it in between his neck and his collar: it gave him a confined and choky feeling, but it was well out of water; and his right hand held the revolver well out of water too. Thus prepared, yet hoping that the worst was over, he took another forward step. Breaking into a run, the Captain was by the edge of the stream the next moment, whipped out his revolver, pointed it at Paul, and cried, "Stop!" For although one does not mean to fire, it is often useful to create the impression that one does.
The action had its effect now, although not exactly as Dieppe had anticipated. Flurried by his double difficulty, Paul stopped again and glanced over his shoulder. He saw the barrel aimed at him; he could not risk disregarding the command, but he might forestall his pursuer's apparent intention. He tried to turn round, and effected half the revolution; thus he faced down-stream, and had his back to the full force of the current. Although no deeper than he had feared, the river was stronger; and in this attitude he offered a less firm resistance. In an instant he was swept off his feet, and carried headlong down-stream, dropping his revolver and struggling to swim to the opposite bank.
"I can't afford to have this happen!" cried Dieppe, and, seeing how the current bore his enemy away, he ran swiftly some fifty yards down the bank, got ahead of Paul, and plunged in, again with the idea of cutting him off, but by water this time, since his plan had failed on land.
Here it is likely enough that the two gentlemen's difficulties and activities alike would have ended. Paul went under and came up again, a tangled, helpless heap of legs and arms; the Captain kept his head above water for the time, but could do nothing save follow the current which carried him straight down-stream. But by good luck the river took a sharp bend a hundred yards below the ford, and Dieppe perceived that by drifting he would come very near to the projecting curve of the bank. Paul was past noticing this chance or trying to avail himself of it. The Captain was swept down; at the right instant he made the one effort for which he had husbanded his strength. He gathered his legs up under him, and he stood. The water was only half-way up his thigh, and he stood. "Now for you, my friend!" he cried. Paul came by, quite inanimate now to all appearance, floating broadside to the current. Leaning forward, the Captain caught him by the leg, throwing his own body back in an intense strain of exertion. He lost his footing and fell. "I must let him go," he thought, "or we shall both be done for." But the next moment he felt himself flung on the bank, and the tension on his arms relaxed. The current had thrown the two on the bank and pursued its own race round the promontory, bereft of its playthings. Drenched, huddled, hatless, they lay there.
"A very near thing indeed," said the Captain, panting hard and regarding Paul's motionless body with a grave and critical air of inquiry. The next moment he fell on his knees by his companion. "Perhaps he carries a flask—I 've none," he thought, and began to search Paul's pockets. He found what he sought and proceeded to unscrew the top.
Paul gasped and grunted. "He 's all right then," said the Captain. Paul's hand groped its way up to his collar, and made convulsive clutches. "I 'd better give him a little more room," mused Dieppe, and laid the flask down for a minute. "Ah, this is a queer cravat! No wonder he feels like choking. A portfolio! Ah, ah!" He took it out and pocketed it. Then he forced some brandy down Paul's throat, and undid his collar and his waistcoat. "A pocket inside the waistcoat! Very useful, very useful—and more papers, yes! Take a drop, my friend, it will do you good." Thus alternately ministering to Paul's bodily comfort and rifling his person of what valuables he carried, Dieppe offered to the philosophic mind a singular resemblance to a Finance Minister who takes a farthing off the duty on beer and puts a penny on the income tax.
The moon was high, but not bright enough to read a small and delicate handwriting by. The Captain found himself in a tantalising position. He gave Paul some more brandy, laid down the packet of letters, and turned to the portfolio. It was large and official in appearance, and it had an ingenious clasp which baffled Dieppe. With a sigh he cut the leather top and bottom, and examined the prize.