He recalled the warning of Mlle. Fouchette, and he trembled for the woman he loved. Well he comprehended the French character where love and hatred are concerned.
At Rue Bezout the girl turned to the left, crossed over, and ran rather than walked towards Avenue Montsouris. Jean ran until he reached the corner, then cautiously peeped around it. Had he not done so he would have come upon her, for she had stopped within two metres and fumbled nervously with a package. He could hear her panting and murmuring in her deep voice. She tore the string from the package with her teeth and threw the paper wrapper on the ground.
It was a bottle of bluish liquid.
His heart stood still as he saw it; his legs almost failed him. If he had seen the intended victim of this diabolical design approaching at that moment he felt that he would scarcely have the strength to cry out in warning, so overwhelmed was he with the horror of it.
What should he do? Would they come this way, or by Montsouris? He might fall upon her suddenly,—overpower her where she stood!
Jean softly peeped once more around the angle of the wall. She was trying to extract the cork from the bottle with a pair of tiny scissors, but, being half frantic with haste and passion, she had only broken one point after the other.
A sweet and silvery laugh behind him sent his heart into his throat. It was Lerouge and Mlle. Remy coming leisurely along the Rue Hallé. It was now or——
But a second glance over his shoulder showed that they had turned down the narrow Rue Dareau. Madeleine had made a mistake.
Almost at the same instant a piercing shriek of agony burst upon the night. The scream seemed to split his ears, so near was it, so deep the pain and terror of it.
And there lay the miserable woman writhing on the walk, tearing out great wisps of her dark hair in her intolerable suffering, and filling the air with heart-rending cries of distress.