She was in fact opposite the window, with no obstacle intervening. He therefore said aloud, in a careless tone: "Coralie, you must be a little tired. We will say good-by." At the same time, he went round her chair to protect her. But he had not the time to complete his movement. She also no doubt had seen the glint of the revolver, for she drew back abruptly, stammering: "Oh, Patrice! . . . Patrice! . . ." Two shots rang out, followed by a moan. "You're wounded!" cried Patrice, springing to her side. "No, no," she said, "but the fright . . ." "Oh, if he's touched you, the scoundrel!" "No, he hasn't." "Are you quite sure?" He lost thirty or forty seconds, switching on the electric light, looking at Coralie for signs of a wound and waiting in an agony of suspense for her to regain full consciousness. Only then did he rush to the window, open it wide and climb over the balcony. The room was on the first floor. There was plenty of lattice-work on the wall. But, because of his leg, Patrice had some difficulty in making his way down. Below, on the terrace, he caught his foot in the rungs of an overturned ladder. Next, he knocked against some policemen who were coming from the ground-floor. One of them shouted: "I saw the figure of a man making off that way." "Which way?" asked Patrice. The man was running in the direction of the lane. Patrice followed him. But, at that moment, from close beside the little door, there came shrill cries and the whimper of a choking voice: "Help! . . . Help! . . ." When Patrice came up, the policeman was already flashing his electric lantern over the ground; and they both saw a human form writhing in the shrubbery. "The door's open!" shouted Patrice. "The assassin has escaped! Go after him!" The policeman vanished down the lane; and, Ya-Bon appearing on the scene, Patrice gave him his orders: "Quick as you can, Ya-Bon! . . . If the policeman is going up the lane, you go down. Run! I'll look after the victim." All this time, Patrice was stooping low, flinging the light of the policeman's lantern on the man who lay struggling on the ground. He recognized old Siméon, nearly strangled, with a red-silk cord round his neck. "How do you feel?" he asked. "Can you understand what I'm saying?" He unfastened the cord and repeated his question. Siméon stuttered out a series of incoherent syllables and then suddenly began to sing and laugh, a very low, jerky laugh, alternating with hiccoughs. He had gone mad. When M. Masseron arrived, Patrice told him what had happened: "Do you really believe it's all over?" he asked. "No. You were right and I was wrong," said M. Masseron. "We must take every precaution to ensure Mme. Essarès' safety. The house shall be guarded all night."