They had not gone a mile, however, when, as they swung creaking round a great boulder, Lapierre pulled up his horses with a loud exclamation, for almost under his horses’ feet lay a man apparently dead, his horse dead beside him.
It was Havel. In an instant Madelinette and Ma dame Marie were bending over him. The widow of the Little Chemist had skill and presence of mind.
“He is not dead, dear mine,” said she in a low voice, feeling Havel’s heart.
“Thank God,” was all that Madelinette could say. “Let us lift him into the coach.”
Now Lapierre was standing beside them, the reins in his hand. “Leave that to me,” he said, and passed the reins into Madame Marie’s hands, then with muttered imprecations on persons unmentioned he lifted up the slight form of Havel, and carried him to the coach. Meanwhile Madelinette had stooped to a little stream at the side of the road, and filled her silver drinking-cup with water.
As she bent over Havel and sprinkled his face, Lapierre examined the insensible man.
“He is but stunned,” he said. “He will come to in a moment.”
Then he went to the spot where Havel had lain, and found a pistol lying at the side of the road. Examining it, he found it had been discharged-both barrels. Rustling with importance he brought it to Madelinette, nodding and looking wise, yet half timorous too in sharing in so remarkable a business. Madelinette glanced at the pistol, her lips tightened, and she shuddered. Havel had evidently failed, and she must face the worst. Yet now that it had come, she was none the less determined to fight on.
Havel opened his eyes and looked round in a startled way. He saw Madelinette.
“Ah, Madame, Madame, pardon! He got away. I fired twice and winged him, but he shot my horse and I fell on my head. He has got away. What time is it, Madame?” he suddenly asked. She told him. “Ah, it is too late,” he added. “It happened over half-an-hour ago. Unless he is badly hurt and has fallen by the way, he is now in the city. Madame, I have failed you—pardon, Madame!”