He got no farther, for I was upon him, all my blood in my face. I caught him up from the chair and smote him in the mouth with my open hand. “You dog!” I cried. “You dog!” and I struck him again. “Murder!” he shrieked. “Help! He is killing me!” I heard steps rushing down the hallway and the door behind me opened. With a last blow I hurled Ribaut back into his chair and turned towards the door, facing a man whom, from his surpassing ugliness, I knew instantly to be Briquet. I had never seen a countenance more repulsive, and I looked at him with loathing. “Who are you, Monsieur,” he cried, “and what do you here?” “I am punishing that scoundrel yonder for daring to ask his niece to marry another scoundrel such as you!” I answered, and I looked him in the eyes, all my contempt in my face. His face went from red to purple. “Kill him!” screamed Ribaut from the chair where he sat, the blood streaming from nose and mouth. “It was he who took the girl from me.” With an oath, Briquet snatched a pistol from his pocket. But I was too quick for him, for, seizing a chair, I knocked the barrel up even as he pulled the trigger and brought the chair down upon his head. He fell like an ox. “Ribaut,” I said, turning to the miserable object cowering in the chair, “if I gave you your deserts I would kill you like the cur you are, but I scorn to draw my sword against such vermin. I warn you that if you so much as lift your finger against that girl you shall pay for it with your life,” and fearing that my passion would yet get the better of me, I turned from the room, strode down the hallway and left the house. As I made my way to the Rue du Chantre I tried in vain to solve the mystery of which I had caught but a glimpse--the terror of Ribaut, the ferocity of Briquet, the evident understanding between the two. Why were they determined to sacrifice the girl? I could find no answer to the question, and I turned to another problem which demanded immediate solution. How was I to provide for her now that the die was cast? I remembered with a melancholy accuracy that my fortune was limited to the contents of my purse and that my purse was anything but heavy. What a cottage at St. Cloud would cost I dared not think, and then a wardrobe had also to be provided, since she had brought with her only the clothes she wore. It was with this problem weighing on my mind that I turned into the entrance and slowly mounted the stairs to my room. I knocked at the door, but there was no response. With a great fear at my heart I flung the door open and entered. One glance told me that the room was empty. Chairs had been overturned, the lock of the door was broken. With a trembling hand I picked up a garment in which there was still a threaded needle. I could read the story at a glance. She had been surprised, overpowered, carried away. And in the moment of agony that followed I knew that I loved her. CHAPTER VI RIBAUT PLAYS A CARD