Chicot, cold and impassible as he always was in positions of great difficulty, especially when he had a conviction at the bottom of his heart that he had done everything his conscience could require of him—­Chicot, we say, took his hand from his sword, which remained in a horizontal position, unfastened the captain’s belt, searched his doublet, took the letter, and read the address: 

“Duchesse de Montpensier.”

All this time the blood was welling copiously from the wound, and the agony of death was depicted on the features of the wounded man.

“I am dying, I am dying!” he murmured.  “O Heaven! have pity on me.”

This last appeal to the divine mercy, made by a man who had most probably rarely thought of it until this moment of his direst need, touched Chicot’s feeling.

“Let us be charitable,” he said; “and since this man must die, let him at least die as quietly as possible.”

He then advanced toward the partition, and by an effort withdrew his sword from the wall, and supporting Borromee’s body, he prevented it from falling heavily to the ground.

This last precaution, however, was useless; the approach of death had been rapid and certain, and had already paralyzed the dying man’s limbs.  His legs gave way beneath him, he fell into Chicot’s arms, and then rolled heavily on the floor.

The shock of his fall made a stream of blood flow from his wound, with which the last remains of life ebbed away.

Chicot then went and opened the door of communication, and called Bonhomet.

He had no occasion to call twice, for the innkeeper had been listening at the door, and had successively heard the noise of tables and stools, the clashing of swords, and the fall of a heavy body; besides, the worthy M. Bonhomet had particularly, after the confidence which had been reposed in him, too extensive an experience of the character of gentlemen of the sword in general, and of that of Chicot in particular, not to have guessed, step by step, what had taken place.

The only thing of which he was ignorant was, which of the two adversaries had fallen.

It must, however, be said in praise of Maitre Bonhomet that his face assumed an expression of real satisfaction when he heard Chicot’s voice, and when he saw that it was the Gascon who, safe and sound, opened the door.

Chicot, whom nothing escaped, remarked the expression of his countenance, and was inwardly pleased at it.

Bonhomet, tremblingly, entered the apartment.

“Good heavens!” he exclaimed, as he saw the captain’s body bathed in blood.

“Yes, my poor Bonhomet,” said Chicot; “this is what we have come to; our dear captain here is very ill, as you see.”

“Oh! my good Monsieur Chicot, my good Monsieur Chicot!” exclaimed Bonhomet, ready to faint.

“Well, what?” inquired Chicot.

“It is very unkind of you to have chosen my inn for this execution; such a handsome captain, too!”