The cry came from beneath the body of a Marseillais. With the aid of a fishwife she pulled away the corpse, discovering the shaken, limp form of the mountebank Cramoisin.
"Ah, mon Dieu," she cried, forgetting the rancor of the woman in the patriot, "are you wounded?"
"I—I think so."
"Where?"
"I don't know," he stammered, rising weakly to his feet. "Is it ended?"
"In thy stomach, I guess, my brave fellow!" the fishwife cried with rough scorn. "It seems to have failed thee!"
"You do not know him: he is a hero!" Nicole cried, ironically. "Wait a moment; we'll find the wound!"
With a laugh, the two sought to seize him; but Cramoisin, having recovered the use of his legs, escaped in a ludicrous, snarling flight.
Suddenly Nicole beheld Barabant stumbling forth from the vestibule. All coquetry forgot, she sprang to him with the cry:
"Barabant, you are wounded!"