He drew a chair under the old brass lamp, that hung from the ceiling. He mounted the chair, and with both hands he seized the chain immediately above the lamp. Drawing himself up, he swung there for just a second; then the hook gave way, and amid a shower of plaster La Boulaye half-tumbled to the ground.
“There,” said he, as he dropped the lamp with its chain and hook upon the floor by Charlot. “It may not be as convincing as we might wish, but I think that it will prove convincing enough to the dull wits of the landlady, and of such of Charlot's followers as may enter here. I am afraid,” he deplored, “that it will be some time before he recovers. He was so far gone in wine that it needed little weight to fell him.”
Her glance met his once more, and she took a step towards him with hands outstretched.
“Monsieur, Monsieur!” she cried. “If you but knew how in my thoughts I wronged you a little while ago.”
“You had all reason to,” he answered, taking her hands, and there came the least softening of his stern countenance. “It grieved me to add to your affliction. But had I permitted him to do so much as suspect that I was anything but your implacable enemy, I had no chance of saving you. He would have dismissed me, and I must have obeyed or been compelled, for he is master here, and has men enough to enforce what he desires.”
And now she would have thanked him for having saved her, but he cut her short almost roughly.
“You owe me no thanks,” he said. “I have but done for you what my manhood must have bidden me do for any woman similarly situated. For to-night I have saved you, Citoyenne. I shall make an effort to smuggle you and your mother out of Boisvert before morning, but after that you must help yourselves.”
“You will do this?” she cried, her eyes glistening.
“I will attempt it.”
“By what means, Monsieur Caron?”