The brigadier had put his eye to the keyhole, and had discovered Andrea in a posture of entreaty. A violent blow from the butt end of the musket burst open the lock, two more forced out the bolts, and the broken door fell in. Andrea ran to the other door, leading to the gallery, ready to rush out; but he was stopped short, and he stood with his body a little thrown back, pale, and with the useless knife in his clenched hand.
“Fly, then!” cried Mademoiselle d’Armilly, whose pity returned as her fears diminished; “fly!”
“Or kill yourself!” said Eugénie (in a tone which a Vestal in the amphitheatre would have used, when urging the victorious gladiator to finish his vanquished adversary). Andrea shuddered, and looked on the young girl with an expression which proved how little he understood such ferocious honor.
“Kill myself?” he cried, throwing down his knife; “why should I do so?”
“Why, you said,” answered Mademoiselle Danglars, “that you would be condemned to die like the worst criminals.”
“Bah,” said Cavalcanti, crossing his arms, “one has friends.”
The brigadier advanced to him, sword in hand.
“Come, come,” said Andrea, “sheathe your sword, my fine fellow; there is no occasion to make such a fuss, since I give myself up;” and he held out his hands to be manacled.
The two girls looked with horror upon this shameful metamorphosis, the man of the world shaking off his covering and appearing as a galley-slave. Andrea turned towards them, and with an impertinent smile asked, “Have you any message for your father, Mademoiselle Danglars, for in all probability I shall return to Paris?”
Eugénie covered her face with her hands.