§3
The Rue de la Planchette was as usual lonely and deserted. It was a second or two before Chauvelin spied a passer-by. That minute he spent in calling for help with all his might. The passer-by he quickly dispatched across to the Arsenal for assistance.
"In the name of the Republic!" he said solemnly.
But already his cries had attracted the attention of the sentries. Within two or three minutes, half a dozen men of the National Guard were speeding down the street. Soon they had reached the house, the door where Chauvelin, still breathless but with his habitual official manner that brooked of no argument, gave them hasty instructions.
"The man lying on the ground in there," he commanded. "Seize him and raise him. Then one of you find some cord and bind him securely."
The men flung the double doors wide open. A flood of light illumined the store-room. There lay the huge figure on the floor, no longer motionless, but trying to scramble to its feet, once more torn by a fit of coughing. The men ran up to him; one of them laughed.
"Why, if it isn't old Rateau!"
They lifted him up by his arms. He was helpless as a child, and his face was of a dull purple colour.
"He will die!" another man said, with an indifferent shrug of the shoulders.
But, in a way, they were sorry for him. He was one of themselves. Nothing of the aristo about asthmatic old Rateau!