It was eight o'clock in the morning; Sans-Cravate was in his usual place, not lying on his crochets this time, but seated on the end of them, with his elbows resting on his knees, and his head in his hands, looking about from time to time with a dissatisfied air. His eyes often sought out Paul's place, which was empty; then he clenched his fists, muttered some words between his teeth, and stamped on the ground impatiently.

Jean Ficelle was pacing back and forth, within a space of about twenty yards; constantly passing in front of his comrade, to whom he spoke now and then, while he took huge bites from an enormous piece of bread and from a bologna sausage, alternately.

"Well, Sans-Cravate, you don't have anything to say this morning. Did our little spree last night tie up your tongue? You ain't sick, are you?"

"No, no! I've forgotten all about it; I'm all right."

"PardiÉ, you wasn't drunk, anyway! anybody who says you was drunk lies."

"I think myself that I had a little too much."

"Not a bit of it; you think that because you got into a dispute, and that heated you up. You could have drunk a lot more. Do you know, I'm very sorry you couldn't settle your bet with PÈre Cagnoux; that would have staggered the old boy. It was that snivelling Paul that spoiled it all. Hm! he was rather inclined to crawl. Refuse to fight! that's just what he did! I call him a poor cuss for friends to be seen with. Look you, a comparison: he's like a slater that's afraid to go up on the roof and is only willing to slate the ground floor."

"But he was willing to fight with the rest of you."

"Oh! yes! for what? mere brag! humbug! he knew well enough that challenging everybody was just the same as challenging nobody. You're the one that he insulted—and, whatever way you look at it, you're the one he owed reparation to. To refuse to drink with friends, and break their glasses! Thanks! that's too damned unceremonious!"

"Oh! now that my head's clear, that isn't what I bear him a grudge for. You see yourself that he was quite right to despise that Laboussole, as he's a thief; and I blush now to think that I drank with such a cur!"

"No, no, not at all! you're all wrong! You think Laboussole's a thief, just because they arrested him as a thief!—why, that's one of the law's spiteful tricks. A man may be involved in a bad piece of business and not be a thief, for all that. I'm sure that Laboussole will come out as white as snow. Come and have a glass of beer. It's my treat."

"No, thanks; I ain't thirsty."

"Oh! you ain't hungry or thirsty to-day! Well, just as you please. But you see the little sneak don't dare to come here this morning; that proves that he has a feeling that he's in the wrong."

"That's true; it's almost nine o'clock, and Paul is almost always the first one here; he don't seem to come."

Jean Ficelle continued to walk back and forth; then stopped again in front of Sans-Cravate, saying with a mocking expression:

"Dame! perhaps his time was so well occupied last night that he's resting this morning—that's what's the matter!"

Sans-Cravate sprang to his feet.

"What do you mean by that?" he cried, with a savage gesture.

"I mean—I mean——Faith! you know well enough what I mean; and I'll bet I know who he's with now."

"With Bastringuette, you mean, don't you?"

"Dame! it seems to me that she didn't hesitate to show you that she preferred that popinjay to you. Women must have mighty little taste; such a fine fellow as you are! Why, you'd make three of Paul!"

"Oh! I'm not jealous of his good fortune," rejoined Sans-Cravate, struggling to appear calm; "let him go with Bastringuette, if he chooses! But last night I saw that he didn't go with her when we left the wine shop; he went away alone—and she—she waited to see if I was following her; then she went off alone, too."

"Bah! humbug! they met afterward. If we knew where Paul lived, we could go and see if he was at home. Do you know where he lives, Sans-Cravate?"

"No, I don't; he told me he lived Faubourg Montmartre way; but that's all."

"The devil! in a faubourg! it would be a nice job to find him! There's some mystery about that fellow; he's a queer fish."

"What difference does it make whether he's at home, or at her room? I don't care a hang! I'm done with Bastringuette."

"Never mind," muttered Jean Ficelle, biting into his bread; "if a mate of mine took my mistress from under my nose, it wouldn't make any difference if I didn't love her—that wouldn't be the end of it."

"And do you suppose that I won't have my revenge?" shouted Sans-Cravate, giving free vent to his anger, and clenching his fists with a threatening air.

"Good!" said Jean Ficelle, patting the other's shoulder hypocritically; "that's more like you. You're still a man. I says to myself: 'It's mighty strange that a brick like Sans-Cravate stands being put upon without doing anything'; but I see that you have a plan; bravo! you're a man!"

At that moment, a short, thin individual, dressed in black, but not well dressed, stopped in front of the two messengers, and said to them:

"You two are the men I want; you're Sans-Cravate, aren't you; and you, Jean Ficelle?"

They assented, and the man in black continued:

"Then you'll be kind enough to come and see monsieur le commissaire."

Jean Ficelle was visibly disturbed by the mention of the magistrate, while Sans-Cravate asked:

"What the devil should we go to see monsieur le commissaire for? I've never been there, and I've no business to settle with him."

"Weren't you at the Petit Bacchus wine shop last night, when a certain Laboussole was arrested there? weren't you drinking with him?"

"Yes, but we didn't know him," Jean Ficelle made haste to reply.

"You can tell monsieur le commissaire what you know about him; he wants to question you. That's all I know; don't fail to come this morning."

"We will come, monsieur."

The little man went away. Jean Ficelle had become thoughtful, and Sans-Cravate knitted his brows, muttering:

"To have to go before the magistrate! Not three days ago, I was congratulating myself on never having had anything to do with him. I've had quarrels enough; I've often fought, but I've always fought fair. No man I ever whipped could complain of being tricked, and there was no need of going before a magistrate to settle our quarrels. And to-day—just because I drank with that Laboussole, a friend of yours,—and now you say that you don't know him, and again that he ain't a thief. Tell me the truth, do you know him, or not?"

"Good God! as if I was called on to compromise myself before the magistrate to help someone else!"

"But if that someone is your friend, if he's arrested unjustly, you'd be a coward if you didn't try to defend him."

"Parbleu! Laboussole's a fox; he will get out of it without any help. Come, Sans-Cravate, don't be ugly; after all, the most respectable people go before the magistrate; you see, we're only summoned as witnesses."

"SacrÉdiÉ! what do you expect to be summoned for? Let's go right away; I long to have it over with."

"All right, let's go."

"But I don't know where the magistrate lives; do you, Jean Ficelle?"

"Yes, it ain't very far from here; come, I'll show you the way."

"And Paul hasn't come yet; but perhaps we shall find him at the magistrate's, too."

The two messengers soon reached their destination.

There are four police magistrates for each arrondissement of Paris, which makes forty-eight for the whole city. That is none too large a number for such a huge, densely populated, turbulent city, where so many things happen every day.

A lantern suspended over the door indicates the magistrate's residence; his office is rarely a particularly attractive apartment; but there is no occasion for him to go to much expense for the benefit of the society he ordinarily receives there, and cleansing would be a useless luxury. Those who come thither are not even accustomed to wipe their feet on the mat—when there is one.

You enter the office, where the magistrate's clerk and secretary are usually to be found, although sometimes the latter official has his desk in another room. Then comes the magistrate's private office, to which everybody is not admitted.

Just as Sans-Cravate and Jean Ficelle arrived, a corporal and two soldiers brought in two women and a boy, the latter holding in his arms a small black dog, evidently a very young puppy.

One of the women was about fifty years of age; she was so enormous that she seemed not to be a human being at all, but a shapeless mass, on top of which was a red, purple, scarlet face surmounted by a dirty bonnet with flying strings; she was a wine shop keeper.

The other woman was younger; she was thin and pale, and had not a pleasant face; but, at all events, she resembled a woman; she was dressed very modestly, and wore a cap and an apron.

The boy, who was about fourteen, could boast already of an enormous head and two puffy cheeks which concealed his nose; he resembled the bulky wine shop keeper, if anything could have resembled her. He was dressed in a blouse, with a small cap on his head; he wore shoes, but no stockings.

The party entered the magistrate's office, yelling, whining, and hurling insults at one another; and the corporal was compelled at times to exert his authority, to keep the two women from fighting.

A considerable crowd, entertained by the quarrel between the two, followed them to the magistrate's door, but were not allowed to go farther.

The magistrate left his private office, where he did not hear trivial matters, and, first of all, asked the corporal what the two women had done.

A corporal of the line is not always a born orator; this one put his hand to his shako, and answered:

"Faith!—the thing—well, you see, I don't know anything about it, but these two women made such a noise in the street—and then they hit each other—and there was this dog here—this little pup no bigger than my hand—then someone came after us to put a stop to it—and, saprediÉ! how they gave it each other on the way! but as for telling you which is in the right, monsieur le commissaire, I'll never try."

Having presented his report, the corporal stepped back. Thereupon the magistrate addressed the two women.

"Well, which of you is the complainant?"

They both spoke at once, and the boy chimed in as well.

"She's the one that's in the wrong, monsieur le commissaire."

"That ain't true, for she says I stole her dog."

"Of course, when I saw you."

"You lie!"

"And she kicked me in the fat of my leg, above the garter."

"And she pinched me so she tore my dress, and you can see the marks of her nails."

"Shut up, you saucy hussy! you ought to tell him that you're the cause——"

"Yes, monsieur le commissaire; she's the cause of it. I've never been here before—this is the first time, I can tell you that!"

The boy, who had the Limousin accent, and talked as if his mouth were full of paste, tried to put in a word:

"First—sure as I stand here—for I was carrying my—my basket, and I saw her!"

To add to the confusion, the dog began to yelp.

"Very good," said the magistrate, with a smile, for he saw that the affair was of no consequence. "I judge that a dog is the subject of your dispute. Well, we will follow Solomon's example, cut him in two, and give half to each of you."

"That's right!" cried the bulky mass, trying to laugh, until her enormous paunch seemed on the point of bursting. "There's no way but cutting him in two."

"The deuce! I should say that you are not the real mother."

"Oh! monsieur le commissaire, I was joking when I said that; but he's my dog. I've got witnesses, too."

"Oh, yes!" cried the thin woman; "and the very first man that came into your shop, when you said to him: 'Ain't that my dog?' answered: 'I never saw him.'"

"She lies! she lies! it is my dog. Everybody knows him; and then, he was with FranÇois, my son here;—come, FranÇois, make your deposition."

FranÇois opened his mouth and moved his lips a long while before he could find a word to say, his excitement had such a powerful effect on his mental faculties; at last, he muttered in a thick voice:

"First—sure as I stand here—as I was going along with my basket, I thought the dog was behind me—and she grabbed him, and run off with him!"

"That ain't true; he's lying, monsieur le commissaire. The dog was ahead of him—a long way ahead of him—when I saw the little creature, and I said: 'He hasn't got any master,' and I picked him up. If he was his, why didn't he say: 'That's my dog.' But he let me pick him up, and it wasn't till madame overtook him that he began to run after me and yell: 'Stop thief!'—What is there to prove that the dog belongs to them and not to me?"

The magistrate, having weighed these depositions in his mind, said to the boy in a grave tone:

"Put the dog on the floor, and let both of these ladies call him; I will give him to the one he follows."

FranÇois placed the little creature on the floor. The two women began to call him, lavishing the most affectionate words on him. The dog did not stir, and the affair became complicated. The two women recommenced their billingsgate, the boy stuttered, the soldiers laughed, and the dog howled. Suddenly the thin woman began to take off her dress to show the marks of the pinching she had received; but the corpulent woman, divining her purpose, instantly raised her skirt, and, fearlessly exhibiting her leg above the garter, cried triumphantly:

"Look, monsieur le commissaire, look! it's blue, it's all blue, and it'll be all black to-morrow!"

It was blue, in fact; to be sure, the rest of the leg seemed to be about the same color; but the magistrate, who did not care to see any more, said to the other woman:

"That seems to be authentic; if you can't show as much, it's of no use for you to unbutton your dress."

The thin woman decided not to disrobe, but began to weep, mumbling:

"Let her keep the dog, for all I care! Mon Dieu! let her keep him! I don't want him! But she's a saucy slut, all the same; a person ain't to be called a thief because she picks up a dog in the street that has no owner!"

The cause was decided, and the magistrate rendered judgment. He awarded the dog to the stout woman, who took him in her arms and waddled triumphantly away with FranÇois, followed by her antagonist, muttering:

"Never mind! you shall pay me for this, dearer than you think!"

Sans-Cravate and Jean Ficelle stepped forward, but the magistrate motioned to them to sit down and wait, for he had many other cases to hear. In the office of a Parisian police magistrate the stage is seldom unoccupied.

Other soldiers, with a short, thickset woman at their head, who seemed disposed to command them, although they also had a corporal with them, brought in a small boy of ten or twelve years, wretchedly clad, or, to speak more accurately, hardly clad at all. Ragged trousers revealed his bare legs, and a linen jacket, devoid of buttons, made no pretence of concealing a torn shirt, black with dirt, and a body blacker still. The little wretch, who, despite his miserable aspect, was stout and strong, had a mean face, and a hangdog glance, which seemed never to have looked at the sky.

This young thief, for the boy had previously been convicted of larceny, was now under arrest charged with stealing a loaf of bread; the thickset woman had the loaf under her arm; she explained to the magistrate that she was a fruit seller and dealt also in soldiers' bread, which she kept at the door of her shop; that the boy crept up to a table on which the bread was, and that another urchin, probably in league with the thief, ran against her and fell almost between her legs; while she helped him get up, his comrade seized a loaf and ran away with it. But she saw him in time; she ran after the little villain and caught him with the stolen loaf still in his possession; so that he could not deny his crime.

"Why did you steal this loaf?" the magistrate sternly asked the little thief, who had listened to the fruit seller's declaration as if it did not concern him, drumming on the clerk's desk with his fingers. He swayed from right to left, just like a bear, stuck out his lips, hung his head lower than ever, and at last mumbled something which could not be taken for words.

"Why did you steal this bread?" repeated the magistrate, more severely than before. "Come, answer; and speak up so that you can be heard."

Thereupon a low, drawling voice replied:

"'Cos I was hungry! I ain't had nothing to eat for two days."

"That is not true; you haven't the face of one who is starving; at all events, if you were hungry, you should have gone to a baker's shop and asked for bread; you wouldn't have been refused. But we know your ways; you stole this loaf of bread to sell again, and get three or four sous to gamble with on the boulevard or at the barrier; isn't that the truth?"

The little fellow again began to sway back and forth. He made a grimace which seemed to be intended for a smile, and said nothing.

"Are your parents living?" continued the magistrate.

"I dunno."

"What! you don't know whether you have a father and mother?"

"I ain't got no father, I don't think."

"And your mother?"

"She sells fried potatoes."

"Isn't she able to pay for your apprenticeship to some trade?"

"I don't want to work."

"You prefer to steal! you hope to be imprisoned with other little rascals of your sort, with whom you will become hopelessly bad. Where does your mother live?"

The little vagabond made no reply. The magistrate repeated his question.

"I won't tell you; I don't want her to claim me; I won't go back to her!"

"Then you will be taken to the prÉfecture, and from there to a house where you'll have to work."

Nothing that the magistrate could say seemed to move the young thief in the slightest degree; but when the secretary took his pen to write the report for the prÉfecture, the little rascal began to laugh, and muttered:

"V'lÀ le griffon qui prend une voltigeante pour broder sur du mince."[F]

The soldiers led the offender away, and the fruit seller went off with her bread. This scene depressed Sans-Cravate; he glanced at his comrade, who seemed utterly unmoved by what he had seen and heard.

A well-dressed man, and of gentlemanly aspect, came forward and informed the magistrate that at No. 19 in the next street, on the third floor, at the rear of the courtyard, a gambling hell was being carried on clandestinely, under cover of a so-called reading-room. The gamblers were admitted by a secret door, and opening out of the reading-room was another room, in which roulette and trente-et-un were played. The magistrate was invited to visit the place, with his inspectors, about ten o'clock at night, when he would be sure to find the games in full operation; his informant would come to fetch him and act as his guide; he had succeeded in obtaining admission as a gambler.

This well-dressed, well-mannered man was simply a spy.

Next came a rather attractive young girl, of modest aspect, who was very near weeping as she asked the magistrate why he had summoned her to his office.

"Because you persist in keeping flower pots on your window ledge, mademoiselle, despite the municipal ordinance; and because, very lately, you spattered water on a lady who was passing. I shall be obliged to fine you."

"Mon Dieu! monsieur le commissaire, it's very strange that I could have spattered anybody, watering a small pot of pansies; for I'm always very careful when I water my flowers. Probably some neighbor below me threw the water out into the street, then the lady looked up and saw a flower pot at my window, and so thought it came from there."

"Still, mademoiselle, your flower pots may cause a serious accident."

"Oh! monsieur le commissaire, just a little pot of pansies!"

"If it should fall on anybody's head, mademoiselle, a pot of pansies might do as much damage as one of poppies. If you are so fond of flowers, why don't you put your pansies on something inside your room? You would enjoy them just as much—yes, more; and there would be no danger to your health, for the pansy has no odor."

The girl lowered her eyes, as she replied:

"That wouldn't be the same thing; if it was inside my room, he wouldn't see it!"

"He wouldn't see it? Ah! I understand: that pot of pansies is a signal to your lover, is it?"

"Yes, monsieur," faltered the girl, with a smile; "when it's on the ledge, he may come up; and if I happen to have company, I take it away, and he don't come up."

"Very good; he is able to come up very often, I judge, as the pot of pansies seems to be always in evidence; and thus the most innocent of flowers is made to serve the intrigues of lovers!"

"Oh! monsieur, my lover will marry me; I am perfectly sure of it."

"I trust so, mademoiselle; but you must put a wooden bar across your window, so that passers-by will not be in danger; only on that condition can I sanction the flower pot which you use to telegraph to your lover."

"What, monsieur! if I put a wooden rail, a bar, across, you will allow me to keep flowers at my window?"

"Yes; if you do that, you may keep as many there as you choose."

The girl fairly jumped for joy.

"Oh! what fun! I will put a rosebush and carnations with my pansies!"

"Mon Dieu! mademoiselle! will each of the three be a signal to a lover?"

"I'll put up a bar right away; and I'll keep three flower pots there, monsieur le commissaire; three flower pots!"

The girl left the office in a very joyous frame of mind. After her, came a woman who charged her husband with striking her with a skimmer; then a husband who wanted a separation from his wife, because she gave him nothing but onion soup for dinner every day; then a tenant who complained of his concierge, because he made him pass the night in the street, on the ground that it was after midnight when he came home; then a peddler whose tray had been upset; a milkwoman whose donkey had been wounded by a cabriolet; a cab that refused to move; a shop which did not close at midnight; a man who had tried to drown himself; a girl who was found dying of suffocation. Sometimes this sort of thing goes on from morning till night; and it not infrequently happens that the magistrate is roused from his sleep. A man needs to be made of iron to fill that post in Paris.

At length, having dismissed the last of the crowd that besieged him, the magistrate motioned to the messengers to follow him into his private office. Having closed his door, to ensure them against interruption, he seated himself at his desk, and addressed Sans-Cravate first.

"Are you the man called Sans-Cravate?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"This is the first time that you have been summoned to my office?"

"That is true, monsieur le commissaire."

"But you have the reputation, in the quarter, of being a noisy, quarrelsome fellow, and of drinking rather hard, too."

"Faith! monsieur le commissaire, it's possible that I like to enjoy myself, that I'm a little hot-headed, that I fight sometimes! It's in my blood, and I can't make myself over. But all that don't prevent a man from being honest, and I defy anyone to say that Sans-Cravate ever did him an injury."

"I know that you are an honest man, that your head alone is a little unruly; and because I am convinced of that, I wanted to speak to you privately, to give you some good advice. This is the first time you have been to my office, and I like to think that, if you follow my advice, it will be the last."

Jean Ficelle turned his head away, and muttered:

"On my word! a moral lecture! I should think we was at Quart-d'Œil's school!"

But Sans-Cravate listened humbly enough to the magistrate, who continued:

"The quickest, the most impulsive people are usually the easiest to lead. Beware of evil associates, Sans-Cravate, that's all; the man who obeys the first suggestions of his anger generally has a weak will; and there are rascals, who, by flattering your passions, sometimes lead you into bad ways."—As he said this, the magistrate glanced at Jean Ficelle, who affected to whistle through his teeth.—"Sans-Cravate, you were at the same table, last night, in a wine shop, with one Laboussole; where did you make that man's acquaintance?"

"Faith! monsieur le commissaire, I know him only by having met him at the Petit Bacchus, and, as Jean Ficelle called him his friend, I invited him to have a drink with us."

"I!" cried Jean Ficelle; "I didn't know him any more'n you did; just from meeting him at the wine shop. I called him old fellow; that's a term men often use to each other when they're drinking together; but I don't know him."

"You lie!" said the magistrate, gazing sternly at the messenger; "you do know that man; you know that he ran a game of chance, a biribi, under Pont d'Austerlitz; and you are suspected of having been his confederate."

"I, monsieur le commissaire! on my word! what a slander!"

"If I were certain of it, you would have ceased to be a messenger before this; for you would be likely to betray the confidence of the public.—As for you, Sans-Cravate, you see how dangerous it is to form intimacies with people you don't know. This Laboussole, in addition to the punishment he has earned for conducting games of chance, is also involved in a serious case of larceny; if you were often seen with such men, your reputation for honesty would suffer. That is what I wanted to say to you. We have too many rascals in Paris now, and it is almost always by frequenting their society that others are ruined. As you know nothing more about Laboussole, you may go."

"But, monsieur le commissaire," said Jean Ficelle, in a fawning tone, "we wasn't the only ones with Laboussole in the wine shop; our mate was there, too—Paul, a messenger who has a stand where we do; why don't you examine him too?"

"If we do not summon that young man before us, it is presumably because we do not deem it necessary. Our purpose in summoning Sans-Cravate was principally to give him some good advice, and to urge him to distrust evil acquaintances. As for your young comrade, such advice to him is unnecessary. He is neither a drinking man, nor a quarrelsome man, nor a frequenter of wine shops; the best thing you could do would be to take him for a model. You may go now."

The two messengers left the magistrate's office. Sans-Cravate was pensive; he seemed to be reflecting upon what had been said to him; but his comrade, who feared the result of his reflections, exclaimed:

"Who ever heard of a magistrate having the cheek to give advice! For God's sake, ain't we old enough to know how to behave? what's all this talk about liberty, anyway? He'd better attend to making cabs move on, and leave us alone!"

"He seems to have a high opinion of Paul," said Sans-Cravate.

Jean Ficelle pursed up his lips, cast a sidelong glance at his companion, and rejoined:

"Do you know, that gives me a curious idea?"

"What is it?"

"That Paul may be a spy; and that it was him who had Laboussole arrested last night."

"Shut up, Jean Ficelle! don't insult our mate. It's an infernal shame for you to say that!"

"I may not be wrong; ain't there something queer in the way Paul acts? Didn't Laboussole say he'd met him all dressed up—like a regular swell?"

"You dare to tell me what Laboussole said—a thief!"

"What does that prove? A man may steal, and still have good eyes; indeed, he's all the more likely to; and then, one day, in the Marais, I thought myself that I recognized Paul in a man dressed like a rich bourgeois; I'm sure now that I wasn't mistaken. If he disguises himself like that, he must have more trades than one. He's a sham messenger, and I go back to my idea: he's a spy!"

"Once more, Jean Ficelle, I forbid you to say such things!"

"But you can't keep me from thinking 'em; ideas are free, like opinions;—a man can't be prevented from having his own opinions and ideas!"

Sans-Cravate made no further reply. They arrived at their stand, but Paul was not there.

Jean Ficelle cast a bantering glance at his comrade, saying:

"He seems to be having a famous spree to-day, does the magistrate's pet!"

Again Sans-Cravate made no reply; but he clenched his fists, and it was evident that he had difficulty in restraining the feelings which agitated him.

More than an hour had passed, when Bastringuette appeared on the boulevard. She had no tray, and was dressed in her best clothes: cap with broad ribbons, merino shawl, and black silk apron. She glanced at the messengers out of the corner of her eye as she passed. Sans-Cravate quickly turned his head and walked away. But Jean Ficelle ran after the flower girl and accosted her:

"Ah! bless my soul! how natty we are! Where can we be going in such a rig? to a wedding, at the very least! it can't be less than that."

"Dame! perhaps that's what it is," retorted Bastringuette, assuming a very sportive air. "Perhaps I'm going to be married myself, nobody knows! Husbands are always on hand!"

She walked on without another word. Jean Ficelle returned to Sans-Cravate, glanced at him, and said nothing.

But Sans-Cravate could not contain himself; a moment later, he cried:

"What did she say? Where's she going? Why don't you speak?"

"She seemed to be as gay as a lark. She said that perhaps she was going to be married. You understand the riddle? She'll be married in the thirteenth arrondissement."[G]

Sans-Cravate hesitated a moment; then, having made up his mind what to do, he said:

"I mean to find out where she's going—to follow her. Are you coming with me?"

"To be sure! As if I would desert a friend! Besides, I don't feel like working to-day. Forward, guide left, march!"

The two messengers followed the boulevard in the direction taken by Bastringuette; they walked very fast, one looking to the right, the other to the left, but they did not see the person they desired to follow.

"Where the devil can she have gone?" said Sans-Cravate.

"It's very strange," rejoined Jean Ficelle, "unless she turned off the boulevard. Here we are at Porte Saint-Denis."

"Let's go on," said Sans-Cravate. "Bastringuette has a cousin who lives Rue Barbette way; perhaps she's gone to see her."

"In the Marais; ah! she has a cousin who lives in the Marais? How that fits in!"

"What's that? what do you mean?"

"Oh! nothing."

"I don't like hints, Jean Ficelle; speak out, sacrebleu!"

"Well, I mean that the Marais is where Paul's always seen when he's disguised as a swell; and Bastringuette comes along, dressed in tiptop style, and goes in that direction. Dame! if a fellow had an evil tongue, he might say that your mistress and our so-called comrade made assignations there—perhaps at the cousin's, who knows? There's such things as obliging cousins."

Sans-Cravate did not say a word, but he strode along the boulevards at such a pace that his companion was breathless with trying to keep up with him. Jean Ficelle suggested a brief halt, but, instead of complying, Sans-Cravate began to run.

"I think I see her over yonder," he shouted; "she turned into Rue du Temple; I must overtake her."

"Thunder and guns!" muttered Jean Ficelle, as he followed on; "my liver'll bust by the time we catch her."