At that moment François, whose face was livid with fear and passion, burst into the room.
"Fly!" cried he, "fly, while you have the chance!"
"Is it the soldiers?" asked Pillot.
"No, worse! Condé's ragamuffins, and they are yelling for M. de Lalande."
At these words I was speechless with amazement, but Pillot cried, "The people? Condé's mob, did you say, François? Then there has been treachery. This is Peleton's work; he wishes to find revenge and safety at one time. Unbind the prisoner, Pierre. Quick, you dolt! I am no murderer, as M. Peleton will find. Monsieur, I give you a chance of your life let what will come of it. François, a sword! Here, monsieur, this way, and the saints preserve us!"
I was free and armed: the door was open; yet I had never stood so near death since my first coming to Paris. From the terrible uproar one would have concluded that the inhabitants of every alley in the city had gathered outside. The street door was being smashed by heavy blows, and, as I ran out on the landing, a fierce mob swarmed up the stairs, screaming, yelling, and shouting for De Lalande.
There was no time to ask questions or even to think. Carried away by passion, the people were thirsting for my blood, though why, I could not imagine. Was this a part of the plot too? What did it all mean? No one had ever called me a coward, but at that moment my limbs trembled, and perspiration oozed from every pore. The cries of the mob were more awful than the roar of some savage beast.
"Quick!" cried Pillot, "it is an affair of seconds," and then every sound was drowned in a fierce shout of "Where is he? Death to the assassin! Kill them all!"
"No, no," exclaimed one voice, louder than the rest, "the others may be honest folk! Only one came in. I saw him! I shall know him! You can tell him by his gay dress!"
"That is Peleton, the scoundrel!" said Pillot "If you are killed now, he will be safe," and the dwarf hurried me along.