He had been caught acting like a blackguard, and that knowledge, and the blow, and Rochefort’s anger, and the horrible indignity of the whole business, paralysed the man in him, quelled his fury, and disabled his arm. “We will see about this later on,” he said, and stooping for his three-cornered hat, which was lying on the ground, he walked away in the direction of the Rue de la Madeleine. Twenty yards off he turned, gazed back at Rochefort, and then went on till the corner of the street hid him from sight. Rochefort sheathed his sword, and turned to the woman, who was leaning, trembling and gasping, against the wall of the Hôtel de Chevilly. “Oh, _mon Dieu_,” said she, “what a night! Ah! monsieur, how can I ever thank you for saving me!” She was young and pretty. The hood of her cloak had fallen back, showing her dark hair and her face, on which the tears were still wet. She was evidently a servant returning from some message, or perhaps some rendezvous. Rochefort laughed as he stooped to pick up her handkerchief, which had fallen on the ground. “There is nothing to thank me for,” said he. “Come, little one, pick up your courage. And here is the handkerchief which you dropped. Have they robbed you, those scamps?” “No, monsieur,” replied the girl; “the letter which I was carrying is safe.” “Ah, they were after a letter! But how did they know you had a letter in your possession? Have they been following you?” “They followed me, monsieur, from my mistress’s home to the house where I went to receive the letter, and from that house they followed me, always at a distance, till I reached the street where they attacked me. They asked me for the letter——” “Ah, they asked you for the letter!” “Yes, monsieur, promising to let me go free if I gave it to them.” “And you?” “I refused, monsieur.” “Well, mademoiselle, your courage does you credit; and now take my arm, and I will see you safe back to your home. _Mordieu_, many a man would have given up letter and purse as well to escape from ruffians like those. What is thy name, little one?” “Javotte,” replied the girl, taking his arm. “Well, Mademoiselle Javotte, your troubles are now at an end, and your letter will arrive safely at its destination. Which way shall we turn?” “I am going to the Rue de Valois, monsieur.” “Ah, well then, our quickest way is straight ahead and through the Rue des Capucines. _En avant_!” As they went on their way they talked. Javotte was not a Parisienne by birth—she hailed from Poictiers—but she had a fresh and lively mind of her own, and to the Comte de Rochefort it came as a revelation that this girl of humble extraction could be both interesting and amusing.