"Confound it! When a man is as awkward as all that he should remain at
home and not come killing people in the streets, if he doesn't know how
to handle a horse."

Four men arrived on the scene, carrying the old woman. She appeared to be
dead. Her skin was like parchment, her cap on one side and she was
covered with dust.

"Take her to a druggist's," ordered the old gentleman, "and let us go to
the commissary of police."

Hector started on his way with a policeman on either side of him, a third
was leading his horse. A crowd followed them--and suddenly the
wagonette appeared in sight. His wife alighted in consternation, the
servant lost her head, the children whimpered. He explained that he would
soon be at home, that he had knocked a woman down and that there was not
much the matter. And his family, distracted with anxiety, went on their
way.

When they arrived before the commissary the explanation took place in few
words. He gave his name--Hector de Gribelin, employed at the
Ministry of Marine; and then they awaited news of the injured woman. A
policeman who had been sent to obtain information returned, saying that
she had recovered consciousness, but was complaining of frightful
internal pain. She was a charwoman, sixty-five years of age, named Madame
Simon.

When he heard that she was not dead Hector regained hope and promised to
defray her doctor's bill. Then he hastened to the druggist's. The door
way was thronged; the injured woman, huddled in an armchair, was