The voice was that of P us de Chateaupers.What passed in her breast is impossible to describe.He was there，her friend，her protector，her safeguard，her refuge—her P us！She started to her feet，and before her mother could prevent her had sprung to the loophole，crying：
'P us！To me，my P us！'
P us was no longer there.He had just galloped round the corner of the Rue de la Coutellerie.But Tristan had not yet gone away.
The recluse rushed at her daughter with a snarl of rage and dragged her violently back，her nails entering the flesh of the girl's neck.But the mother turned tigress has no thought of careful handling.Too late.Tristan had seen it all.
'Hé！hé！'he chuckled with a grin that bared all his teeth and made his face wolfish；'two mice in the trap！'
'I suspected as much，'said the soldier.Tristan slapped him on the shoulder.'Thou are a good cat！Now，then，'he added，'where is Henriet Cousin？'
A man，having neither the dress nor the appearance of a soldier，stepped out from their ranks.He wore a suit half gray，half brown，with leather sleeves，and carried a coil of rope in his great hand.This man was in constant attendance on Tristan，who was in constant attendance on Louis XI.
'Friend，'said Tristan l'Hermite，'I conclude that this is the witch we are in search of.Thou wilt hang me that one.Hast thou thy ladder？'
'There is one under the shed at the Maison-aux-Piliers，'answered the man.'Is it at the gallows over there we're to do the job？'he continued，pointing to the gibbet.
'Yes.'
'So，ho！'said the man，with a coarse laugh more brutal even than the provost's，'we shall not have far to go！'
'Make haste，'said Tristan，'and do thy laughing afterward.'
Since the moment when Tristan had seen her daughter，and all hope was lost，the recluse had not uttered a word.She had thrown the poor girl，half dead，into a corner of the cell and resumed her post at the window，her two hands spread on the stone sill like two talons.In this attitude she faced the soldiers unflinchingly with a gaze that was once more savage and distraught.As Henriet Cousin approached the cell，she fixed him with such a wild beast glare that he shrank back.
'Monseigneur，'said he，turning back to the provost，'which must I take？'
'The young one.'
'So much the better；the old one seems none too easy.'
'Poor little dancer！'said the sergeant of the watch.
Henriet Cousin advanced once more to the window.The mother's eye made his own droop.
'Madame，'he began timidly—
She interrupted him in a whisper of concentrated fury：
'What wilt thou？'
'It is not you，'he said，'but the other one.'
'What other one？'
'The young one.'
She shook her head violently.'There is nobody！nobody！nobody！'she cried.
'Yes，there is！'returned the hangman，'as you very well know.Let me take the girl.I mean no harm to you.'
'Ah！ha！'she said，with a wild laugh；'you mean no harm to me？'
'Let me take the other，good wife；'tis the provost's orders.'
'There is nobody else，'she repeated distractedly.
'But I tell you there is！'retorted the hangman.'We all saw the two of you.'
'Thou hadst best look，then，'said the recluse with a mad chuckle.'Thrust thy head through the window.'
The hangman considered the nails of the mother，and dared not.
'Haste thee now！'cried Tristan，who had drawn up his men in a circle round the Rat-Hole，and stationed himself on horseback near the gibbet.
Henriet returned to the provost in perplexity.He laid the coil of rope on the ground，and was twisting his cap nervously in his hands.
'Monseigneur，'he asked，'how must I get in？'
'By the door.'
'There is none.'
'Then by the window.'
'It is too narrow.'
'Widen it，then，'said Tristan impatiently.'Hast thou no pickaxes？'
The mother，still on guard at the opening to her den，watched them intently.She had ceased to hope，ceased to wish for anything.All she knew was that she would not have them take her daughter from her.
Henriet Cousin went and fetched the box of executioner's tools from the shed of the Maison-aux-Piliers；also，from the same place，the double ladder，which he immediately set up against the gibbet.Five or six of the provost's men provided themselves with crowbars and pickaxes，and Tristan accompanied them to the window of the cell.
'Old woman，'said the provost in stern tones，'give up the girl to us quietly.'
She gazed at him vacantly.
'Tête-Dieu！'exclaimed Tristan，'why dost thou hinder us from hanging this witch as the King commands？'
The wretched creature broke into her savage laugh again.
'Why do I hinder you？She is my daughter.'
The tone in which she uttered these words sent a shudder even through Henriet Cousin himself.
'I am sorry，'returned the provost.'But it is the good pleasure of the King.'
Whereat she cried，her dreadful laugh ringing louder than before：
'What is he to me—thy King？I tell thee it is my daughter.'
'Break through the wall！'commanded Tristan.
To do this it was only necessary to loosen a course of stone underneath the loophole.When the mother heard the picks and lever sapping her fortress，she uttered a blood-curdling cry，and then started running round and round her cell with startling quickness—a wild-beast habit she had learned from her long years of confinement in that cage.She said no word，but her eyes blazed.The soldiers felt their blood run cold.
Suddenly she snatched up her stone in both hands，laughed，and hurled it at the workmen.The stone，ill-thrown，for her hands were trembling，touched no one，but fell harmless at the feet of Tristan's horse.She gnashed her teeth.
Meanwhile，though the sun had not yet risen，it was broad daylight，and the old，moss-grown chimneys of the Maison-aux-Piliers flushed rosy red.It was the hour when the windows of the earliest risers in the great city were thrown cheerfully open.A countryman or so，a few fruit-sellers，going to the markets on their asses，were beginning to cross the Grève，and halted for a moment to gaze with astonishment at the group of soldiers gathered about the Rat-Hole，then passed on their way.
