“Scoundrel!” vociferated Paulet, “you’ve robbed me of my doxy, what d’you think is to become of me now?”
“Fool! she wanted to be done with you!”
“Ah! if you hadn’t hid her away, you old rascal, if only I could have seen her!”
But Moche ordered him to hold his tongue. It needed all his strength to keep the apache down. Paulet, savage and desperate, had managed with his right hand to grasp the barrel of the revolver, and was holding it away from his body; it looked as if he might renew the struggle, perhaps floor the old man in his turn. The two wretches fought furiously for some seconds, now one, now the other momentarily getting the upper hand; the two rolled over and over in the dust. At last Moche succeeded in gripping the young apache’s throat between his powerful fingers, after forcing him to let go the revolver.
“Die, then,” yelled Moche, “die, as you won’t give in!”
“Oh! oh!” stammered Paulet in a broken voice, “Curse it, curse my luck! will no one save me?”
Suddenly the two combatants were dragged apart. In answer to Paulet’s cry for help, someone shouted in a ringing voice: “I will.”
The someone had picked up the revolver that had been dropped in the struggle and stood with it in his hand. Dazed and dumbfounded, Paulet gazed open-mouthed at his preserver, whom he did not know. Père Moche, for his part, saw that the person who had just intervened between them in the battle was no other than the servant at the restaurant who had waited at breakfast.
Moche stared at the man, scrutinizing his face with concentrated attention; suddenly he broke into a cry:
“Fandor, in heaven’s name!” he exclaimed, “you blackguard, I didn’t recognize you before....”