Aubé, according to his instructions, slowly raised the bars of the door, at which the police were impatiently knocking. When at last the door was opened, a crowd poured in, headed by a Police Commissioner.
"Keeping me waiting in this way will cost you dear, let me tell you!" foamed this important functionary.
"But why are you here?" stammered the proprietor of the restaurant.
"I don't suppose we are bound to tell you that, are we? But first, who is that man?" and he pointed to Arthur, who pale and covered with blood, was not especially reassuring in appearance.
"That man, sir, of whom you speak so rudely," said Arthur, with some heat, "is the son of the Marquis de Montferrand."
"I beg ten thousand pardons!" said the official, in the most obsequious tone, "but this house is a den—"
"A den!" gasped Aubé.
"Yes, a den where the enemies of our beloved king plot together."
"And who are these enemies? What may their names be?"
"Gudel, or Iron Jaws, and a scoundrel named Fanfar."