“Let us take him to the Hospital Beaujon!” exclaimed Vignol. “We are close by there.”
An ambulance was speedily procured, and the workmen, placing their insensible friend carefully in it, asked permission to carry him to the hospital.
One curious event had excited the attention of some of the lookers on. Just as Andre fell, a commissaire had rushed forward and seized a woman. She was one of the class of unfortunates who frequent the Champs Elysees, and she it was who had uttered the cry that had lured Andre to destruction. The woman made an effort to escape, but Palot, for it was he, caught her arm.
“Not a word,” said he sternly. The wretched creature seemed in abject terror, and obeyed him.
“Why did you cry out?” asked he.
“I do not know.”
“It is a lie!”
“No, it is true; a gentleman came up to me, and said, ‘Madame, if you will cry out now, Andre, it is I—your Sabine; help! I will give you two louis.’ Of course I agreed. He gave me the fifty francs, and I did as he asked me.”
“What was this man like?”
“He was tall, old, and very shabby and dirty, with glasses on. I never set eyes on him before.”