"No use. Come! no nonsense."
François put out a pleading hand. "But they will kill me, comrade." He looked all the alarm needed.
"Bah!"
In an instant the strongest grip of the Cité was on the man's throat, and closed as a vise closes. A faint cry escaped as the man struggled. François threw a leg back of the fellow, and as he fell dropped on his chest. It was brief. The man's heels clattered on the floor; he was still. The thief rose. The man was to appearance dead. He would revive, perhaps. "Peste!" cried François, "it is hard to keep one's head."
Seizing a paper from the table, François went out of the door, closing it after him, and coolly caressing a cat on the step. He said to the guard that his comrade would be out by and by, and that it was all right. As he spoke he waved the paper, and, taking the rope, went on, crying: "Get up, ci-devant!" As they got farther away he hurried the duke. "Death is behind us. Get on. Faster—faster!" He twisted and turned, and was not at ease until they were deep in the sinuous, box-hidden paths of the Luxembourg.
Very few people were to be seen, and these looked at or after them with curiosity.
"We must be a queer party. Get on, citizen. Thou art lazy. Thou wilt soon have a fine carriage." He was terribly anxious. "Sacré, monsieur! For the love of the saints, go on, and quicker!"
"What the deuce is it?" said the duke.
"That beast at the barrier knew me. He was an old thief."
"And what then? Why were we not stopped if he knew you?"