At last I reached the road and for an instant hesitated, looking up and down. To ask aid of the Blues would be to court the guillotine, and yet I might blunder along the road for hours without coming to a house where help could be secured. Had I the right to condemn her to that suffering? Then I remembered Goujon. Better a sprained ankle than that infamy—better any suffering than that! And resolutely I set my face westward.
“It will not be long,” I whispered. “We shall find a house. Be brave! Remember only that I love you!”
She answered with a pressure of her arms about my neck, and I went on with new strength, my heart singing. At last, with a deep breath of thankfulness, I discerned the roof of a cottage rising above the hedge to the right. Was it occupied? There was no light at the window nor smoke rising from the chimney, but I hastened forward to its door and knocked. There was no response. I tried the door and found it barred, so I knocked again, or rather hammered savagely with my fist. This time a step approached.
“Be off!” cried a harsh voice. “No entrance here.”
“Citizen,” I said as mildly as I could, “I ask your aid—you will lose nothing by opening the door.”
“Be off!” he cried again. “I will not open.”
“Well then I shall kick it in,” I said, letting my wrath burst forth, “and shoot you down like the dog you are. Choose—a gold louis if you aid me, death if you refuse!” and I gave the door a premonitory kick which made the flimsy building tremble. “Come, is it war or peace?”
“What is it you require, citizen?” asked the voice after a moment in a milder tone.
“Some water boiling hot and cloth for a bandage.”
“And for these you will give a gold louis?”