"You will go, nevertheless."
"I tell you I will not go," exclaimed Cournet.
And with a movement, unexpected as a flash of lightning, he seized the police spy by the throat.
The police agent could not utter a cry, he struggled: a hand of bronze clutched him.
His tongue protruded from his mouth, his eyes became hideous, and started from their sockets. Suddenly his head sank down, and reddish froth rose from his throat to his lips. He was dead.
Huy and Lorrain, motionless, and as though themselves thunderstruck, gazed at this gloomy deed.
They did not utter a word. They did not move a limb. The fiacre was still driving on.
"Open the door!" Cournet cried to them.
They did not stir, they seemed to have become stone.
Cournet, whose thumb was closely pressed in the neck of the wretched police spy, tried to open the door with his left hand, but he did not succeed, he felt that he could only do it with his right hand, and he was obliged to loose his hold of the man. The man fell face forwards, and sank down on his knees.