He knelt down and put his hand on the baron's breast. The heart was still beating. He stooped lower still: "You can hear me, can't you?" The eyelids flickered feebly. The dying man was just breathing. Was there anything to be obtained from this faint semblance of life? The policemen were attacking the door, the last rampart. Sernine whispered. "I will save you. . . . I have infallible remedies. . . . One word only . . . Geneviève? . . ." It was as though this word of hope revived the man's strength. Altenheim tried to utter articulate sounds. "Answer," said Sernine, persisting. "Answer, and I will save you. . . . Answer. . . . It means your life to-day . . . your liberty to-morrow. . . . Answer! . . ." The door shook under the blows that rained upon it. The baron gasped out unintelligible syllables. Leaning over him, affrighted, straining all his energy, all his will to the utmost, Sernine panted with anguish. He no longer gave a thought to the policemen, his inevitable capture, prison. . . . But Geneviève. . . . Geneviève dying of hunger, whom one word from that villain could set free! . . . "Answer! . . . You must! . . ." He ordered and entreated by turns. Altenheim stammered, as though hypnotized and defeated by that indomitable imperiousness: "Ri . . . Rivoli. . . ." "Rue de Rivoli, is that it? You have locked her up in a house in that street . . . eh? Which number?" A loud din . . . followed by shouts of triumph. . . . The door was down. "Jump on him, lads!" cried M. Weber. "Seize him . . . seize both of them!" And Sernine, on his knees: "The number . . . answer. . . . If you love her, answer. . . . Why keep silence now?" "Twenty . . . twenty-seven," whispered the baron. Hands were laid on Sernine. Ten revolvers were pointed at him. He rose and faced the policemen, who fell back with instinctive dread. "If you stir, Lupin," cried M. Weber, with his revolver leveled at him, "I'll blow out your brains."' "Don't shoot." said Sernine, solemnly. "It's not necessary. I surrender." "Humbug! This is another of your tricks!" "No," replied Sernine, "the battle is lost. You have no right to shoot. I am not defending myself." He took out two revolvers and threw them on the floor. "Humbug!" M. Weber repeated, implacably. "Aim straight at his heart, lads! At the least movement, fire! At the least word, fire!" There were ten men there. He placed five more in position. He pointed their fifteen right arms at the mark. And, raging, shaking with joy and fear, he snarled: "At his heart! At his head! And no pity! If he stirs, if he speaks . . . shoot him where he stands!" Sernine smiled, impassively, with his hands in his pockets. Death was there, waiting for him, at two inches from his chest, at two inches from his temples. Fifteen fingers were curled round the triggers.