"Raoul!" I cried, "Raoul! Where have you been? I thought you were in the burning house!"
"There was your cousin to save," he answered simply, flushing like a girl.
"You risked your life to save his?"
"Pshaw! I could not leave him to die like a rat. Then Pillot came with one of his fellows and we carried him through the secret passage into the next house."
"Is he seriously hurt?"
"I am afraid so; though Pillot calls his wound a scratch. But what of Peleton? Has he escaped?"
"No! He is safe in the Hotel de Condé by now. D'Arçy and Humphreys took him there in a coach. But come, let us get away from this crowd, and visit the surgeon in the Rue Pierre. It is quite time your wounds were attended to."
"It is scarcely worth the trouble; I can have that done at the Luxembourg."
However, I managed to persuade him, and the surgeon, a man whom I had met more than once at the Palais Royal, bathed his wounds, applied some ointment, and lent him a hat. He was a wise man and asked no questions, though no doubt he learned in the morning all that he wished to know.
Leaving the house we walked to the end of the street, when Raoul stopped, saying, "You had better not go any farther with me; Condé will be expecting you."