At last he left the neighborhood of the Rue des Gravelliers and made for
a broader street. Reaching the Boulevard de Sebastopol, he turned to the
left, and took a fresh start. He darted on with marvelous rapidity, with
his elbows pressed close to his body--husbanding his breath and timing
his steps with the precision of a dancing-master. Never pausing, and
without once turning his head, he ever hurried on. And it was at the
same regular but rapid pace that he covered the Boulevard de Sebastopol,
crossed the Place du Chatelet, and proceeded to mount the Boulevard
Saint-Michel.
Here he suddenly halted before a cab-stand. He spoke to one of the
drivers, opened the door of his vehicle, and jumped in. The cab started
off at a rapid pace. But May was not inside. He had merely passed
through the vehicle, getting out at the other door, and just as the
driver was departing for an imaginary destination May slipped into an
adjacent cab which left the stand at a gallop. Perhaps, after so many
ruses, after such formidable efforts, after this last stratagem--perhaps
May believed that he was free.
He was mistaken. Behind the cab which bore him onward, and while he
leaned back against the cushions to rest, a man was running; and this
man was Lecoq. Poor Father Absinthe had fallen by the way. In front of
the Palais de Justice he paused, exhausted and breathless, and Lecoq had
little hope of seeing him again, since he had all he could do to keep
his man in sight without stopping to make the chalk-marks agreed upon.
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