The topmost branches of the tree, protruding through the window, rendered the centre of the room untenable, so Malartic and his three aids ranged themselves two and two against the wall on either side of it, armed with pistols and swords—ready to give the assailants a warm welcome.
“You had better retire, my lord duke, or else put on a mask,” whispered Malartic to the young nobleman, “so that you may not be seen and recognised in this affair.”
“What do I care?” cried Vallombreuse, flourishing his sword. “I am not afraid of anybody in the world—and besides, those who see me will never go away from this to tell of it.”
“But at least your lordship will place this second Helen in some safe retreat. A stray bullet might so easily deprive your highness of the prize that cost so dear—and it would be such a pity.”
The duke, finding this advice judicious, went at once over to where Isabelle was standing beside Chiquita, and throwing his arms round her attempted to carry her into the next room. The poor girl made a desperate resistance, and slipping from the duke’s grasp rushed to the window, regardless of danger, crying, “Save me, de Sigognac! save me!” A voice from without answered, “I am coming,” but, before he could reach the window, Vallombreuse had again seized his prey, and succeeded in carrying her into the adjoining room, closing and bolting the stout oaken door behind him just as de Sigognac bounded into the chamber he had quitted. His entrance was so sudden, and so swiftly and boldly made, that he entirely escaped the pistol shots aimed at him, and the four bullets all fell harmless. When the smoke had cleared away and the “garrison” saw that he was unhurt, a murmur of astonishment arose, and one of the men exclaimed aloud that Captain Fracasse—the only name by which they knew him—must bear a charmed life; whereupon, Malartic cried, “Leave him to me, I’ll soon finish him, and do you three keep a strict guard over the window there; for there will be more to follow this one if I am not mistaken.”
But he did not find his self-imposed task as easy as he supposed—for de Sigognac was ready for him, and gave him plenty to do, though his surprise and disappointment were overwhelming when he found that Isabelle was nowhere to be seen.
“Where is she?” he cried impetuously. “Where is Isabelle? I heard her voice in here only a moment ago.”
“Don’t ask me!” Malartic retorted. “You didn’t give her into my charge.” And all this time their swords were flashing and clashing, as the combat between them grew more animated.
A moment later, before the men had finished reloading their pistols, Scapin dashed in through the window, throwing a remarkable somersault like an acrobat as he came, and seeing that the three ruffians had laid down their swords beside them on the floor while attending to their other weapons, he seized upon them all, ere their owners had recovered from their astonishment at his extraordinary advent, and hurled them through the broken casement down into the moat. Then, laying hold of one of the three from behind, and pinning down his arms securely, he placed him in front of himself for a shield—turning him dexterously this way and that, in order to keep his body always between his own and the enemy; so that they dared not fire upon him lest they should kill their comrade, who was vehemently beseeching them to spare his life, and vainly struggling to escape from Scapin’s iron grip.
The combat between de Sigognac and Malartic was still going on, but at last, the baron—who had already wounded his adversary slightly, and whose agony and desperation at being kept from prosecuting his search for Isabelle were intense—wrested Malartic’s sword from his grasp, by a dexterous manœuvre with his own, and putting his foot upon it as it lay on the floor raised the point of his blade to the professional ruffian’s throat, crying “Surrender, or you are a dead man!”