hotel. "Ah, what is that?" cried the brigadier.
"Some traveller seems impatient," said the host. "What number
was it that rang?"
"Number 3."
"Run, waiter!" At this moment the screams and ringing were
redoubled. "Ah," said the brigadier, stopping the servant, "the
person who is ringing appears to want something more than a waiter;
we will attend upon him with a gendarme. Who occupies Number
3?"
"The little fellow who arrived last night in a post-chaise with
his sister, and who asked for an apartment with two beds." The bell
here rang for the third time, with another shriek of anguish.
"Follow me, Mr. Commissary!" said the brigadier; "tread in my
steps."
"Wait an instant," said the host; "Number 3 has two staircases,
— inside and outside."
"Good," said the brigadier. "I will take charge of the inside
one. Are the carbines loaded?"
"Yes, brigadier."
"Well, you guard the exterior, and if he attempts to fly, fire
upon him; he must be a great criminal, from what the telegraph
says."
The brigadier, followed by the commissary, disappeared by the
inside staircase, accompanied by the noise which his assertions
respecting Andrea had excited in the crowd. This is what had
happened. Andrea had very cleverly managed to descend two-thirds of
the chimney, but then his foot slipped, and notwithstanding his
endeavors, he came into the room with more speed and noise than he
intended. It would have signified little had the room been empty,
but unfortunately it was occupied. Two ladies, sleeping in one bed,
were awakened by the noise, and fixing their eyes upon the spot
whence the sound proceeded, they saw a man. One of these ladies,
the fair one, uttered those terrible shrieks which resounded
through the house, while the other, rushing to the bell-rope, rang
with all her strength. Andrea, as we can see, was surrounded by
misfortune.
"For pity's sake," he cried, pale and bewildered, without seeing
whom he was addressing, — "for pity's sake do not call assistance!
Save me! — I will not harm you."whom he was addressing, — "for pity's sake do not call assistance!
Save me! — I will not harm you."
"Andrea, the murderer!" cried one of the ladies.
"Eugenie! Mademoiselle Danglars!" exclaimed Andrea,
stupefied.
"Help, help!" cried Mademoiselle d'Armilly, taking the bell from
her companion's hand, and ringing it yet more violently. "Save me,
I am pursued!" said Andrea, clasping his hands. "For pity, for
mercy's sake do not deliver me up!"
"It is too late, they are coming," said Eugenie.
"Well, conceal me somewhere; you can say you were needlessly
alarmed; you can turn their suspicions and save my life!"
The two ladies, pressing closely to one another, and drawing the
bedclothes tightly around them, remained silent to this
supplicating voice, repugnance and fear taking possession of their
minds.
"Well, be it so," at length said Eugenie; "return by the same
road you came, and we will say nothing about you, unhappy
wretch."
"Here he is, here he is!" cried a voice from the landing; "here
he is! I see him!" The brigadier had put his eye to the keyhole,
and had discovered Andrea in a posture of entreaty. A violent blow
from the butt end of the musket burst open the lock, two more
forced out the bolts, and the broken door fell in. Andrea ran to
the other door, leading to the gallery, ready to rush out; but he
was stopped short, and he stood with his body a little thrown back,
pale, and with the useless knife in his clinched hand.
"Fly, then!" cried Mademoiselle d'Armilly, whose pity returned
as her fears diminished; "fly!"
"Or kill yourself!" said Eugenie (in a tone which a Vestal in
the amphitheatre would have used, when urging the victorious
gladiator to finish his vanquished adversary). Andrea shuddered,
and looked on the young girl with an expression which proved how
little he understood such ferocious honor. "Kill myself?" he cried,
throwing down his knife; "why should I do so?"
"Why, you said," answered Mademoiselle Danglars, "that you would
be condemned to die like the worst criminals."be condemned to die like the worst criminals."
"Bah," said Cavalcanti, crossing his arms, "one has
friends."
The brigadier advanced to him, sword in hand. "Come, come," said
Andrea, "sheathe your sword, my fine fellow; there is no occasion
to make such a fuss, since I give myself up;" and he held out his
hands to be manacled. The girls looked with horror upon this
shameful metamorphosis, the man of the world shaking off his
covering and appearing as a galley-slave. Andrea turned towards
them, and with an impertinent smile asked, — "Have you any message
for your father, Mademoiselle Danglars, for in all probability I
shall return to Paris?"
Eugenie covered her face with her hands. "Oh, ho!" said Andrea,
"you need not be ashamed, even though you did post after me. Was I
not nearly your husband?"
And with this raillery Andrea went out, leaving the two girls a
prey to their own feelings of shame, and to the comments of the
crowd. An hour after they stepped into their calash, both dressed
in feminine attire. The gate of the hotel had been closed to screen
them from sight, but they were forced, when the door was open, to
pass through a throng of curious glances and whispering voices.
Eugenie closed her eyes; but though she could not see, she could
hear, and the sneers of the crowd reached her in the carriage. "Oh,
why is not the world a wilderness?" she exclaimed, throwing herself
into the arms of Mademoiselle d'Armilly, her eyes sparkling with
the same kind of rage which made Nero wish that the Roman world had
but one neck, that he might sever it at a single blow. The next day
they stopped at the Hotel de Flandre, at Brussels. The same evening
Andrea was incarcerated in the Conciergerie.