It was Henri Lerouge.
He was hatless and his clothes were in shreds and covered with the grime of the street. His hair was matted with coagulated blood,—his lips were swollen hideously. A police agent in about the same condition held him by the throat.
When Henri Lerouge saw Jean Marot he seemed imbued with the strength of a giant and the agility of a cat. He shook off the grip of the agent as if it were that of a child and at a bound cleared the struggling group that separated him from his former friend.
They grappled without a word and without a blow, and, linked in the embrace of mortal hatred, rolled together in the dust.
The cruel human waves broke over them and rolled on and receded, and went and came again, and eddied and seethed and roared above them.
These two rose no more.