A feeling of
ungovernable jealousy seized me. I threw down my gun and dashed after
him, knife in hand, resolved, I believe, to stab him if he attempted to
touch what I considered my booty. I saw him approach the door, try to
open it, peer attentively through the keyhole, to assure himself that
his prey had not escaped him. Suddenly shots were heard again. He sprang
to his maimed feet with that marvellous agility of his, and limped off
to the ramparts. For myself, hidden as I was by the darkness, I let him
pass and did not follow. A passion other than the love of slaughter had
just taken possession of me. A flash of jealousy had fired my senses.
The smell of powder, the sight of blood, the noise, the danger, and the
many bumpers of brandy we had passed round to keep up our strength had
strangely heated my brain. I took the key from my belt and opened the
door noisily. And now, as I stood before my captive again, I was no
longer the suspicious and clumsy novice she had so easily moved to pity:
I was the wild outlaw of Roche-Mauprat, a hundred times more dangerous
than at first. She rushed towards me eagerly. I opened my arms to
catch her; instead of being frightened she threw herself into them,
exclaiming:
"Well! and my father?"
"Your father," I said, kissing her, "is not there. At the present moment
there is no question either of him or of you. We have brought down a
dozen gendarmes, that is all.
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