I went up by no means gaily. Three other men, I observed, were still in the house, and would in all probability join in the attack upon me. I had parted with my pistol. The door was without a lock. The window was shuttered from the outside. My only arms were a small pocket-knife and my belt.
I took the precaution to secrete my letter to the deputy, along with that to Mr Lestrange, in my boot, and the little money I had left I tied up in the tail of my shirt. Then I considered that the only safe place for me that night was to sit on the floor with my back against the door and my heels against the foot of the bed, which chanced to stand at just the required length. In this posture, even if I fell asleep, any attempt to force the door would arouse me; and if the door was reasonably sound I could reckon, with my back and feet, on keeping it fast against the four, at any rate for a while.
I had a long time to wait. They evidently meant to give me time to fall asleep, and themselves, perhaps, time to consume some more of the cognac which my money had provided. I was indeed almost dozing when my ears caught the sound of an unsteady footstep on the stairs and a whispering of voices below. Then the footstep stopped outside my door, and a hand cautiously turned the handle.
“The young dog smells a rat,” muttered my landlord, with a hickup which gave me some hope.
“True for you, monsieur,” replied I, in as good French as I could muster. “I can shoot rats as well as smell them.” And I made the blade of my knife give a click that sounded for all the world like the cocking of a pistol.
“Armed!” ejaculated the tipsy scoundrel. “God have mercy! Pardon, monsieur, I came to see if you were comfortable.”
“Monsieur citoyen is too good. I am most comfortable, and beg to be waked at cock-crow. Bonsoir.”
I knew of course that was not the end of him, but while he stumbled downstairs to take counsel with his comrades I had at least time to breathe. I peeped out of the door. All was dark, and there was no sound but the ticking of the great Dutch clock in the shop below.
The clock! I had noticed it that evening—a great unwieldy structure like a coffin on end, and a dial above. If I could but get down to it, while my assailants were up despatching me, I might yet have a chance of eluding them. I could hear them discussing together at the foot of the stairs, and presently advance once more to the charge, not this time with my host as an advance-guard, but all together. I slipped out into the passage, and hid in a dark corner at the head of the stairs, so close, indeed, that they all but brushed against me in passing.
“Alors, il dort,” said my host, listening for a moment. “No; he moves. All together now.”