It was a stag-beetle that saved my life—whereout of might be snatched many little rags of reflections; for it shot whizzing and booming past my ear and startled me to a sudden sideway jump. The fellow was almost on my back at the moment, and could not check his impetus. He came crack against the low wall, his club span out of his fist, and he himself clutched, failed, and went over with a mighty splash into the water underneath.
The ludicrous dénoûment gave me time to collect my faculties. I was at no loss for an immediate solution of the incident. The highways, in these glorious days of fraternity, were infested with footpads, and no farther than five miles out of Paris we had had trouble with them. Doubtless this rascal, the carriage being out of sight, had taken me for a solitary pedestrian.
I looked over the parapet, feeling myself master of the situation, though I had no weapon upon me. My assailant was gathering his long limbs together in the shallow pool. The water dragged the hair over his eyes and ran in a stream from his bristling chin. Suddenly he saw, drew a pistol, and clicked it at me. It was a futile and desperate action, and calculated only to confirm my estimate of his character.
“Ventrebleu and the devil!” he shouted. “Make way for me, sir.”
I waved my hand, right and left of the ferry. Should he emerge either way, I could easily forestall him.
“You have your choice of roads,” I said, politely.
He recognised his difficulty, and turned as if to wade up stream and escape by the fields. His fourth step brought him into deep water, out of which he floundered snorting.
“Try under the bridge,” I said. “It is the right passage for rats.”
He cursed me volubly.
“Well, we are one to one,” said he in sudden decision, and came splashing out on the Coutras side.