Paul saw the gleam of a blade flashing above his face. He closed his eyes, uttering Élisabeth's name.
Another second; and three shots rang out in rapid succession. Some one was firing from behind the group formed by the two adversaries.
The spy swore a hideous oath. His grip became relaxed. The weapon in the hand trembled and he fell flat on the ground, moaning:
"Oh, the cursed woman! . . . That cursed woman! . . . I ought to have strangled her in the car. . . . I knew this would happen. . . ."
His voice failed him. He stammered:
"I've got it this time. . . . Oh, that cursed woman! . . . And the pain . . . !"
Then he was silent. A few convulsions, a dying gasp and that was all.
Paul had leapt to his feet. He ran to the woman who had saved his life and who was still holding her revolver in her hand:
"Élisabeth!" he cried, wild with delight.
But he stopped, with his arms outstretched. In the dark, the woman's figure did not seem to him to be Élisabeth's, but a taller and broader figure. He blurted out, in a tone of infinite anguish: