In Which We Burn All Bridges

"But, Monsieur," began Jean, a few moments later, as he entered from
the alley door.

"Eh bien? What then, Jean?" I demanded hastily, already leading
Helena toward the door.

"This! This!" And he waved in my face a copy of the same paper which
had lain on our table. "The streets are full of it. And I see, I
behold--I recognize! It is Mademoiselle--that is to be Madame!"

My face flushed hotly. "As I hope, Jean." That was all I said. "Now,
please, out of our way. Is the taxi there?"

He stepped aside. I heard his voice, eager, apologetic, but knew that
now no time must be lost. Vague sounds of voices came to us from the
main room of the café, ordinarily so quiet. I felt, rather than knew,
that soon the news would be about town. The throb of the taxi was
music to my ears when I found it in the dark.

"Stop for nothing," said I to the driver, as I closed the door. "Slip
K, on the river-front, below the warehouses. Stop at the car tracks
where they turn. And go fast--I must catch a boat that is just
leaving."

"What boat--from there--are you sure, sir?" asked he, touching his
cap.

"Of course I'm sure. Go on! Don't stop to talk, man!"

He made no answer to this, but turned to his wheel. We shot out into
Royal Street, turned down it, spun into a narrow way past the old
Cathedral, crossed Jackson Square in the full moonlight, passed the
Old Market, and threaded dark and dirty thoroughfares parallel to the
river. None sought to stay us, though many paused in the gently
squalid life of that section, to look after our churning car, a thing
not usual there so far from depot or usual landing place.