Uncle Graff wished to take Marcel into his arms, question him, and assure himself that he was safe and sound; but, on turning round, he found Baudoin wiping away with his handkerchief the blood and perspiration flowing from his forehead. Marcel, as soon as the issue of the struggle left no room for doubt, had immediately thought of Sophia. Now that danger for him had disappeared, it loomed forth with a terrible aspect for her. The police, who had restored the situation by intervening to save him, would now appear on the scene for her ruin. He mounted the stairs more quickly than he had descended, for he felt that the time in which anything could be done was short indeed.
Rushing into the room, the door of which was still open, he drew the bolts on Sophia with as much fear and solicitude as she had drawn them on himself. She had remained standing, leaning pensively against the mantelpiece, as though devoid of interest in what was taking place on the floor beneath. Milona stood by her side; she had doubtless told her of the defeat of her companions. Marcel, in terrified ardour, rushed up to her.
“The house is in the hands of the police, do you not know? Why are you still here?”
“I was waiting for you,” replied Sophia, calmly. “But it means ruin to you!”
“How does that affect you?”
“I will not consent to it! I cannot endure the idea that you should suffer threatenings and torture for having defended me.”
A light came into Sophia’s face.
“Then will you still allow me to see you?”
He replied, firmly—
“Impossible! After what has taken place between us, I must never see you again! I cannot, I must not! For your own sake!”