“Where in the name of all the devils are you lugging that thing?”
It was the Commissary!
“To my room. I want to put my furs away,” came the soft answer from madame.
“Blague! Put it down!” And I was jarred on the stone flags.
Then came a pause, and I was speculating on the best mode of attack for a man in my ridiculous position, when the chest was lifted at one end and again dropped heavily.
Then came the same voice, but with a tone of triumph to it:
“Well, do as you like; but there is a lot of old rubbish in it. Take it first, and empty it over the Princess's Bastion!” And once more the chest was slowly lifted.
A pretty situation surely, and clever on the part of M. the Commissary again. A tumble down on those rocks or into the moat would be equally effective, and would not require such explanations as if my body were found in the King's vaults; but my gentleman reckoned without his host.
My scheme was as simple as his own. Hardly had we got clear of the house before my mind was made up. When I judged we were at the open space between the end of the barricaded street and the ramparts I uttered a terrifying yell and flapped the lid. It was enough. The chest went crashing to the ground, and I crawled out, bruised but otherwise unhurt, and my valiant porters were out of sight.
