As they reached the lonely boulevard of Gros-Caillon, of which we have just spoken, the sergeant drew near to the prisoner, and said to him in a rapid and low tone,—
"One can hardly see here. It is a dark spot. On the left there are trees. Be off!"
"But," said the prisoner, "they will fire at me."
"They will miss you."
"But suppose they kill me?"
"It will be no worse than what awaits you."
The prisoner understood, shook the sergeant's hand, and taking advantage of the space between the line of soldiers and rear-ground, rushed with a single bound outside the column, and disappeared in the darkness beneath the trees.
"A man is escaping!" cried out the officer who commanded the last company. "Halt! Fire!"
The column halted. The rear-guard company fired at random in the direction taken by the fugitive, and, as the sergeant had foreseen, missed him. In a few moments the fugitive had reached the streets adjoining the tobacco manufactory, and had plunged into them. They did not pursue him. They had more pressing work on hand.
Besides, confusion might have arisen in their ranks, and to recapture one they risked letting the 336 escape.