The _sergents de ville_ surrounded the _fiacre_. But whether by chance or through confidence, or in the haste to obtain the payment for his capture, the man who had arrested Cournet shouted to the coachman, "Look sharp, look sharp!" and the _fiacre_ went off at a gallop. In the meantime Cournet was well aware that on arriving he would be shot in the very courtyard of the Prefecture. He had resolved not to go there. At a turning in the Rue St Antoine he glanced behind, and noticed that the _sergents de ville_ only followed the _fiacre_ at a considerable distance. Not one of the four men which the _fiacre_ was bearing away had as yet opened their lips. Cournet threw a meaning look at his two companions seated in front of him, as much as to say, "We are three; let us take advantage of this to escape." Both answered by an imperceptible movement of the eyes, which pointed out the street full of passers-by, and which said, "No." A few moments afterwards the _fiacre_ emerged from the Rue St. Antoine, and entered the Rue de Fourcy. The Rue de Fourcy is usually deserted, no one was passing down it at that moment. Cournet turned suddenly to the police spy, and asked him,-- "Have you a warrant for my arrest?" "No; but I have my card." And he drew his police agent's card out of his pocket, and showed it to Cournet. Then the following dialogue ensued between these two men,-- "This is not regular." "What does that matter to me?" "You have no right to arrest me." "All the same, I arrest you." "Look here; is it money that you want? Do you wish for any? I have some with me; let me escape." "A gold nugget as big as your head would not tempt me. You are my finest capture, Citizen Cournet." "Where are you taking me to?" "To the Prefecture." "They will shoot me there?" "Possibly." "And my two comrades?" "I do not say 'No.'" "I will not go." "You will go, nevertheless." "I tell you I will not go," exclaimed Cournet. And with a movement, unexpected as a flash of lightning, he seized the police spy by the throat. The police agent could not utter a cry, he struggled: a hand of bronze clutched him. His tongue protruded from his mouth, his eyes became hideous, and started from their sockets. Suddenly his head sank down, and reddish froth rose from his throat to his lips. He was dead. Huy and Lorrain, motionless, and as though themselves thunderstruck, gazed at this gloomy deed. They did not utter a word. They did not move a limb. The _fiacre_ was still driving on. "Open the door!" Cournet cried to them. They did not stir, they seemed to have become stone. Cournet, whose thumb was closely pressed in the neck of the wretched police spy, tried to open the door with his left hand, but he did not succeed, he felt that he could only do it with his right hand, and he was obliged to loose his hold of the man. The man fell face forwards, and sank down on his knees. Cournet opened the door. "Off with you!" he said to them.