He found the going more difficult here for his bad leg, but he pressed on, and in a little while saw before him that wall which skirted the Clamart road. He felt in his pocket for the four sealed and stamped letters, but just then the old Michel spoke behind him:
"Pardon, Monsieur! Ce n'est pas permis."
"What is not permitted?" demanded Ste. Marie, wheeling about.
"To approach that wall, Monsieur," said the old man, with an incredibly gnomelike and apologetic grin.
Ste. Marie gave an exclamation of disgust. "Is it believed that I could leap over it?" he asked. "A matter of five metres? Merci, non! I am not so agile. You flatter me."
The old Michel spread out his two gnarled hands.
"Pas de ma faute. I have orders, Monsieur. It will be my painful duty to shoot if Monsieur approaches that wall." He turned his strange head on one side and regarded Ste. Marie with his sharp and beadlike eye. The smile of apology still distorted his face, and he looked exactly like the Punchinello in a street show.
Ste. Marie slowly withdrew from his pocket two louis d'or and held them before him in the palm of his hand. He looked down upon them, and Michel looked, too, with a gaze so intense that his solitary eye seemed to project a very little from his withered face. He was like a hypnotized old bird.
"Mon vieux," said Ste. Marie. "I am a man of honor."
"Sûrement! Sûrement, Monsieur!" said the old Michel, politely, but his hypnotized gaze did not stir so much as a hair's-breadth. "Ça va sans le dire."