Francois complied, vertigo in his limbs. “My God!” he cried, wringing his hands.
“Your master tried to murder me,” said Maurice. Francois had heard voices like this before, and it conveyed to him that a fine quality of anger lay close to the surface. “Take down yonder window curtain cord.” Francois did so. “Now bind your master's hands with it.”
“Francois,” cried the Colonel, “if you so much as lay a finger on me, I'll kill you.”
“Francois, I will kill you if you don't,” said Maurice.
“My God!” wailed the valet at loss which to obey when to obey either meant death. His teeth chattered.
“You may have all the time you want, Francois, to wring your hands when I am gone. Come; to work. Colonel, submit. I'm in a hurry and have no time to spare. While I do not desire to kill you, self-preservation will force me to put a bullet into your hide, which will make you an inmate of the city hospital. Bind his hands behind his back, and no more nonsense.”
“Monsieur,” appealingly to Beauvais, “my God, I am forced. He will kill me!”
“So will I,” grimly; “by God, I will!” Beauvais had a plan. If he could keep Maurice long enough, help might arrive. And he had an excellent story to tell. Still Francois doddered. With his eye on the Colonel and the revolver sighted, Maurice picked up the sword. He gave Francois a vigorous prod. Francois needed no further inducement. He started forward with alacrity. In the wink of an eye he threw the cord around Beauvais's arms and pinned them to his sides. Beauvais swore, but the valet was strong in his fright. He struggled and wound and knotted and tied, murmuring his pitiful “Mon Dieu!” the while, till the Colonel was the central figure of a Gordian knot.
“That will do,” said Maurice. “Now, Francois, good and faithful servant, take your master over to the lounge, and sit down beside him until I get into my clothes. Yes; that's it.” He shoved his collar and tie into a pocket, slipped on his vest and coat, put on his hat and slung his topcoat over his arm. During these maneuvers the revolver remained conspicuously in sight. “Now, Francois, lead the way to the street door. By the time you return to your illustrious master, who is the prince or duke of something or other, pursuit will be out of the question. Now, as for you,” turning to Beauvais, “the forty-eight hours hold good. During that time I shall go armed. Forty-eight hours from now I shall inform the authorities at the nearest consulate. If they catch you, that's your affair. Off we go, Francois.”
“By God!—” began Beauvais, struggling to his feet.