"Where is he? Get him out, some of you!" cried the coachman as he seized the reins close to the bit.
By this time a couple of stout gendarmes and two or three soldiers of the Antibes legion had made their way to the front and were dragging away the fallen cab-horse. A tall, thin, elderly gentleman, of a somewhat sour countenance, descended from the carriage and stooped over the injured soldier.
"It is only a Zouave, Excellency," said the coachman, with a sort of sigh of relief.
The tall gentleman lifted Gouache's head a little so that the light from the carriage-lamp fell upon his face. He was quite insensible, and there was blood upon his pale forehead and white cheeks. One of the gendarmes came forward.
"We will take care of him, Signore," he said, touching his three-cornered hat. "But I must beg to know your revered name," he added, in the stock Italian phrase. "Capira—I am very sorry—but they say your horses—"
"Put him into my carriage," answered the elderly gentleman shortly. "I am the Principe Montevarchi."
"But, Excellency—the Signorina—-" protested the coachman. The prince paid no attention to the objection and helped the gendarme to deposit Anastase in the interior of the vehicle. Then he gave the man a silver scudo.
"Send some one to the Serristori barracks to say that a Zouave has been hurt and is at my house," he said. Therewith he entered the carriage and ordered the coachman to drive home.
"In heaven's name, what has happened, papa?" asked a young voice in the darkness, tremulous with excitement.
"My dear child, there has been an accident in the street, and this young man has been wounded, or killed—"