“I have her,” said he to himself. He looked all about him, but there was not an empty cab to be seen. Gladly would he have cried, like Richard the III., “My kingdom for a cab!”
The brougham got out of the entanglement, and started off rapidly towards the Rue Tronchet. The old fellow followed.
He kept his ground. The brougham gained but little upon him.
While running in the middle of the street, at the same time looking out for a cab, he kept saying to himself: “Hurry on, old fellow, hurry on. When one has no brains, one must use one’s legs. Why didn’t you think to get this woman’s address from Clergeot? You must hurry yourself, my old friend, you must hurry yourself! When one goes in for being a detective, one should be fit for the profession, and have the shanks of a deer.”
But he was losing ground, plainly losing ground. He was only halfway down the Rue Tronchet, and quite tired out; he felt that his legs could not carry him a hundred steps farther, and the brougham had almost reached the Madeleine.
At last an open cab, going in the same direction as himself, passed by. He made a sign, more despairing than any drowning man ever made. The sign was seen. He made a supreme effort, and with a bound jumped into the vehicle without touching the step.
“There,” he gasped, “that blue brougham, twenty francs!”
“All right!” replied the coachman, nodding.
And he covered his ill-conditioned horse with vigorous blows, muttering, “A jealous husband following his wife; that’s evident. Gee up!”
As for old Tabaret, he was a long time recovering himself, his strength was almost exhausted.