But he had not the time to complete his movement. She also no doubt had seen the glint of the revolver, for she drew back abruptly, stammering:
“Oh, Patrice! . . . Patrice! . . .”
Two shots rang out, followed by a moan.
“You’re wounded!” cried Patrice, springing to her side.
“No, no,” she said, “but the fright . . .”
“Oh, if he’s touched you, the scoundrel!”
“No, he hasn’t.”
“Are you quite sure?”
He lost thirty or forty seconds, switching on the electric light, looking at Coralie for signs of a wound and waiting in an agony of suspense for her to regain full consciousness. Only then did he rush to the window, open it wide and climb over the balcony. The room was on the first floor. There was plenty of lattice-work on the wall. But, because of his leg, Patrice had some difficulty in making his way down.
Below, on the terrace, he caught his foot in the rungs of an overturned ladder. Next, he knocked against some policemen who were coming from the ground-floor. One of them shouted: