Sans-Cravate had quickened his pace in order to reach Rue du Temple, into which he thought that he had seen Bastringuette turn. When he walked at his ordinary gait, he moved almost as rapidly as a cab; so that, as may be imagined, his double-quick step was likely to tire anybody who attempted to keep up with him.

Jean Ficelle was compelled to run, in order not to lose sight of his comrade. From time to time, he called out to him:

"Stop a minute, won't you! I can't keep up with you; do you want to see my spleen swell up like a balloon? SacrÉdiÉ! you ought to be a runner; I believe you could beat the horses on the Champ de Mars!"

Sans-Cravate reached Rue de la Corderie without catching another glimpse of the woman he had thought was Bastringuette. There he halted at last.

"It's mighty lucky," panted Jean Ficelle. "I was just going to give out; on my word, I was blowing like a cab horse!"

"I don't see that woman," said Sans-Cravate; "it's very strange! Where the devil has she gone to?"

"Was it really Bastringuette that you saw turn into this street? You ain't sure of it, are you?"

"No."

"What are we going to do now?"

"As long as we're in the Marais, let's go to Rue Barbette, where my traitor's cousin lives."

"All right, let's inspect the Marais, I'm willing; perhaps we may meet somebody else. But we don't need to run any more, that don't help us any. Let's walk along quiet now, arm in arm."

"Did I run just now?"

"Oh, no! of course not! not any faster than a steam engine. I'm willing to go with you and help you in your search; for I'm your friend—and when anyone insults you, d'ye see, it makes me madder than if it was me. Bless my soul! a friend's a friend—that's enough for me. But that's no reason for your breaking my wind. Besides, you know, you can find things out much better by going slow than by running like a bullet. Look you, I'll give you a comparison. Have you ever been on the railroad?"

"Yes; I went to Saint-Germain once, with Bastringuette."

"Well, what did you see, what did you notice on the way?"

"How do you suppose a man can notice anything when he's going like the wind?"

"Exactly—that's what I'm coming at. That's like you—just now. How do you expect to see anything or find out anything in the street, when you're running like a horse with the bit between his teeth?"

"I believe you're right; give me your arm, and we'll go slowly about our search in the Marais."

The Marais is the oldest quarter of Paris, next to the CitÉ; despite the numerous changes, enlargements, and improvements which have been made in the capital, the Marais has retained its primitive aspect more nearly than any other quarter. There we can still find a large number of the old houses and mansions occupied by our ancestors. It is not surprising, therefore, that, as we stroll through that quarter, our imagination carries us back several centuries, and our memory recalls all those deeds of the olden time with which our childhood was entertained.

For instance, if you have studied or read our history ever so little, you cannot pass through Rue des Tournelles without recalling the fact that one of the king's palaces once stood on that street; that Henri II caused lists to be constructed, reaching from the Bastille to the Palais des Tournelles, for the tourney in which he received his death wound; that it was in front of the Bastille that the celebrated duel took place in the year 1578, between QuÉlus, Livarot, and Maugiron on the one side, and RibÉrac, Schomberg, and D'Entragues on the other. They fought at five o'clock in the morning; Maugiron and Schomberg, who were less than twenty years old, were killed on the spot; RibÉrac and QuÉlus died of their wounds shortly after. At that time, the rage for duelling was carried to such a pitch that it not infrequently happened that a father acted as his son's second. Still, those were the days which are called, by common consent, the good old time.

If you walk through Rue Sainte-Avoye, you look for the HÔtel de Mesmes, where lived Anne de Montmorency, Constable of France, an illustrious old man, who was mortally wounded, at the age of seventy-four, at the battle of Saint-Denis, after unhorsing by a blow with the hilt of his sword (the blade had been broken during the battle) the man who summoned him to surrender.

Rue Barbette recalls Isabel of Bavaria, that queen whom France holds in no very kindly remembrance. She had a house there, which she called her petit sÉjour. It was thither that she generally retired during the paroxysms of the malady of her husband, Charles VI; a custom which does not speak highly for her wifely affection; a good bourgeoise would have stayed with her husband, to take care of him and nurse him. But she was a queen—and this happened in the good old time.

Pass through Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine, and you will be conscious of a thrill of terror as you recall the murderous attack upon the ConnÉtable de Clisson by Pierre de Craon. For it was on the corner of that street that the latter lay in hiding on the night of June 13, 1391. He was at the head of a number of cutthroats, lying in wait for him whose death he had sworn to compass. Although he had no other weapon than a small knife, the constable used it with such wonderful address and vigor that he did not die of his wounds.

If you visit Rue des Lions, your eyes will seek the buildings in which the king's lions were confined, and your memory will at once recall the adventure of the Chevalier de Lorges. While FranÇois I was amusing himself by watching his lions at play, a lady dropped her glove in the arena, and said to De Lorges:

"If you would have me believe in your love, go fetch my glove."

The chevalier went down into the arena, picked up the glove from the midst of the lions, returned to his place, threw the glove in the lady's face, and never spoke to her again. That, too, happened in the good old time. To-day, our ladies do not exact such proofs of affection; with us, gallantry is less savage, and we might even apply to it what someone has said of music: Emollit mores, nec sinit esse feros.

Close at hand is Rue des NonaindiÈres, formerly Rue des Nonains d'HiÈre, because the abbey of the village of HiÈre still owned several estates on that street. That was the abbey where the use of eggs was not permitted until the fourteenth century; before that time, they were considered too great a delicacy for nuns.

Then there is Rue Saint-Paul, which cannot fail to remind you of the famous mansion erected by Charles V. With its gardens, it occupied all the space between Rue Saint-Antoine and the river, from the city moat to the church of the parish of Saint-Paul. In those days, the houses in which kings dwelt were always flanked by huge towers, and the gardens planted with fruit trees and vines. Rue Beautrellis and Rue de la Cerisaye took their names respectively from a beautiful trellis and from a plantation of cherry trees, both of which were within the confines of the gardens of the HÔtel Saint-Paul. We have become more luxurious than our kings of the olden time, for now no petty banker will have anything but ornamental trees and shrubs in his park; he would blush to have you find a plum tree or an apricot tree there.

On Rue des Trois Pavillons, one's thoughts inevitably turn to the fair Diane de Poitiers, whom Henri II made Duchesse de Valentinois. That street once bore her name, because she lived there; I cannot tell you why they rechristened it, but, for my part, I prefer the name of a pretty woman to Trois Pavillons.

Lastly, there is the Vieille Rue du Temple. Your heart contracts as you recall the assassination of the Duc d'OrlÉans on that street, one evening in the month of November, 1407, near a small house called the Image de Notre-Dame.

But we have dwelt long enough on the memories evoked by that ancient quarter. Although the Marais has retained down to the present day, in some of its streets, a part of its primitive aspect, it has undergone numerous changes; new, broad, and airy streets and elegant, even coquettish, houses have risen on the sites of the gloomy Gothic structures of our ancestors. As for the people of that quarter, they bear no resemblance whatever to the Parisians who lived in the Marais at the time of which we have been evoking the memory. Morals, customs, manners, everything is changed, and we may well congratulate our contemporaries that it is so; for, as we have seen, duels, murders, and ambuscades are the subjects of most of the legends that have come down to us. We may be less chivalrous, but, while we are no less brave, we are more light-hearted, more amiable, and much less treacherous than our forbears of the good old time.

To-day, the people of the Marais dress almost as well as those of the ChaussÉe d'Antin; there are no districts in Paris now that are behind the times in respect to fashions, but everybody cannot or does not choose to follow them. A dandy of Rue Saint-Louis may make as fine a show as he of Boulevard des Italiens, especially as there is nothing to prevent their having the same tailor.

We ought to say, however, that there is something more of the patriarchal rigidity of manners to be observed in the Marais than in other quarters of the capital. The people there close their shops a little earlier, and do not sit up quite so late as in the centre of the city; the young women are more submissive in their demeanor toward their parents, the young men do not as yet venture to appear in a salon when they exhale an odor of pipe or cigar. But these shades of difference are very slight, and, doubtless, will very soon blend with the general color.

The two messengers walked arm in arm. Sans-Cravate seemed deep in thought; he did not speak, but looked carefully on all sides, scrutinizing everybody who passed; he even tried to look into the shops; in every woman that he saw he fancied that he recognized Bastringuette, whom he had ceased to love, as he believed, but of whom he constantly thought. That is a very poor way of ceasing to love a person.

Jean Ficelle whistled and sang and smoked, and tried to enliven his comrade. But he barely replied, and often without rhyme or reason, which proved that he was not listening. Jean Ficelle tried frequently to stop him. When they passed a wine shop, he would say:

"Shan't we go in and take a glass? the glass of friendship! no one refuses that."

But Sans-Cravate refused; he walked on, saying:

"Later—in a minute—I don't want to drink now."

"You're getting to be a devilish queer kind of a friend," growled Jean Ficelle; "you make me travel all over Paris dry—do you want me to catch the pip, like a turkey?"

At last they reached Rue Barbette, and Sans-Cravate pointed out to his comrade a small fruit shop at some little distance.

"That's where Bastringuette's cousin lives."

"That one-eyed fruit stall?"

"To be sure, as she keeps it."

"Well, let's go in and see if your girl's there."

"I wouldn't like to have her think I'm watching her. Do you go by alone, and look in; the shop is very small, and you can easily see all the people that are in it; I'll wait here for you."

"All right. I'll be skirmisher."

He left Sans-Cravate standing at the entrance of a passageway, and walked toward the fruit stall at a mincing gait. He passed the shop twice, looking in both times, then returned to Sans-Cravate.

"There's no more Bastringuette than there is crabs in the fruit store," he said. "Your doll ain't there."

"Perhaps you didn't look closely."

"Oh! yes, I did; it ain't hard to do. There's nobody there except the proprietor, and an old woman who wants carrots, I fancy, for she was hauling 'em all over."

"I want to see for myself."

And Sans-Cravate walked toward the fruit stall, in his turn. Jean Ficelle followed him, still whistling. When they had passed the shop, Sans-Cravate stopped, and muttered with a distressed expression:

"She ain't there!"

"Pardieu! I knew it. I've got eyes like a falcon, I have. But I don't see what made you think Bastringuette was there. Your wench wouldn't have rigged herself out in her prettiest togs to go to a paltry shop where they sell burned onions and old Brie cheese. When a woman dresses up, it means that she's going to meet a man she wants to catch; you don't need to be a chemist to see that."

"Yes, yes, you are right."

"Oh! I know the world, my boy. Sometimes I don't say nothing, but I think a lot. But what's to hinder your going into the shop and asking if Bastringuette's been there to-day?"

"No; she'd find out that I'd been looking for her; she'd think that I care what she does. I won't do it."

"It seems to me, she wouldn't be far out of the way if she thought that."

"I tell you, I don't love her any more—I hate her; but I'd like to catch her with the other one, just so's to say: 'You're a pair of curs, and I despise you!'—and that's all. I tell you, Jean Ficelle, no woman will ever be anything to me after this; they're too treacherous; I won't have any more mistresses, I swear!"

"Don't swear—that's nonsense! Look you, I'll give you another comparison: when a woman has a pretty cat, she always says when she's patting him and kissing him: 'If I lose this one, I swear I'll never have another.'—But what happens? her cat dies or gets lost, and in a little while she's sure to get another one, and says just the same about him that she did about the first one. Now, you see, women say just the same thing about their lovers that they do about their cats. 'If this one leaves me, I'll never have another.'—And when their lover leaves 'em, they always take another, just as they do a cat. Well! when a man says: 'I won't have any more mistresses, because mine has played tricks on me,' it's just the same story."

"But I have some character, some strength of will!" cried Sans-Cravate; "and to prove that I don't mean to think of Bastringuette any more, I'm going to drink and gamble and enjoy myself—go on a spree with my friends."

"Well, well! good enough! that's what I call talking! Come along, I'll take you to the rendezvous of the Francs-Lapins. You'll find some friends there you can depend on. Have you got any cash?"

"Yes, I still have six or seven francs left of what Monsieur Albert gave me last night."

"We must spend 'em! Anyway, we can't do any more work to-day; it's too late, and you need amusement, and so do I. Forward—and as we go along, I'll teach you a drinking song that goes to the tune of Partant pour la Syrie, with an accompaniment of tongs beating a kettle; it has a fine effect at dessert."

Sans-Cravate took his companion's arm. It was evident that he was doing his utmost to overcome his chagrin and to appear hilarious. Jean Ficelle, who believed himself to be an excellent singer, had already begun the song with which he proposed to entertain his friend, when, as they turned out of Rue Barbette into Vieille Rue du Temple, a young man, who wore a round hat, and whose dress, while not fashionable, was that of a respectable bourgeois, walked rapidly by them. He seemed much preoccupied, and did not notice the two messengers. But they looked at him and recognized him, and Jean Ficelle triumphantly exclaimed:

"Well! what did I tell you? Was I mistaken? You've seen him yourself. That was Paul, dressed like a swell."

"Yes, it was him, that's sure! I can't get over it!"

"And do you see how proud he is when he's dressed up like that? he passed close to us, and pretended not to know us. What does it all mean? is that a messenger's dress? Anyone would swear he was a drummer. You see yourself that there's something crooked, some mystery."

Sans-Cravate was not listening, for he had run after Paul; although the younger man walked very rapidly, Sans-Cravate soon overtook and passed him; then, planting himself in front of him, he barred his passage, saying in a bantering tone which ill concealed his anger:

"Where are you going so fast? Bigre! seems to me, you're dressed mighty fine for a messenger who stands on the street corner to do errands."

Paul was thunderstruck when he recognized Sans-Cravate; but he strove to overcome his annoyance, and replied:

"I am not doing errands to-day, and when a man isn't working he is free to dress as he pleases."

"That may be! but, still, nobody ever meets us in such a rig, not even on Sunday."

"No," said Jean Ficelle, who had overtaken his two confrÈres, and joined in the conversation with a bantering leer; "no! we ain't so stylish as that! Gad! what a swell! Paul must have some other trade that pays better than ours, to wear such togs! And think how stingy he is with us, never willing to treat his friends to a glass!"

"I do what I choose! I am not accountable to anyone for my actions," retorted Paul, with an angry glance at Jean Ficelle; "I don't play the spy on other people, and I care mighty little what is thought of me by people who had better learn to behave themselves, first of all!"

With that, Paul hurried away, while the two messengers looked at each other with a disappointed expression.

"What an insolent brat he is, the little foundling!" cried Jean Ficelle; "don't that deserve a hiding—when a puppy without any father or mother puts on airs like that? He insulted you again."

"Me?" said Sans-Cravate, in surprise; "how did he insult me, I'd like to know?"

"Didn't you hear what he said: 'There are people who had better learn how to behave themselves before they spy on other people?'—He looked at you when he said that."

"I thought you was the one he was looking at."

"Oh, no! He spotted you."

"Well, one thing's certain, and that is that Paul isn't with Bastringuette, and that I was wrong to think they were together."

Sans-Cravate seemed less distressed; it was evident that his jealousy had partly disappeared. But Jean Ficelle rejoined, with a shrug:

"They ain't together now—that's true. But what is there to prove that they didn't separate just now? Perhaps Bastringuette ain't so far away. I have my ideas. See, I'll give you a comparison: it's like the way a cat insists on staying in a garret because he smells mice there; it's no use to try to drive him out——"

"SacrÉdiÉ! Jean Ficelle, you tire me with your comparisons! Come, let's go and see the Francs-Lapins; we are going to spree it a bit, you know. I'm all ready."

Instead of complying, Jean Ficelle pointed to a house with a passage, on the left, and said:

"That's where our fine gentleman came from; and perhaps we might be able to find out where he'd been."

"You think Paul came out of that house, you say?" said Sans-Cravate, walking in that direction.

"Yes, yes, I'm sure of it. I was looking straight ahead, and there was no one coming. And all of a sudden someone came out of that passage, and it was him."

Sans-Cravate stopped in front of the house, and finally decided to enter the passageway, which was rather dark, with no sign of a concierge's quarters. Jean Ficelle followed his comrade, and, after examining the passage for a moment, they walked toward a dark, winding staircase at the rear.

"Shall we go up?" said Jean Ficelle.

"Where shall we go? Who shall we ask for?"

"Dame! I don't know. But we can act as if we'd made a mistake. We'll ask for a midwife for a woman who's in a great hurry for one. How's that for a game! Or we can ask if Monsieur Paul, ex-messenger, lives in the house."

"No, no!" cried Sans-Cravate, going back into the street. "After all, Paul was right when he said we ought not to play the spy on him, that he's free to do what he pleases. I have a feeling that it's a mean business to try to find out people's secrets. I don't like the job at all. Let's go."

Jean Ficelle said no more, but followed his comrade, in evident ill humor, turning his head every minute to look at the house they had just left. Suddenly he seized Sans-Cravate, who was a little ahead of him, by the arm, and exclaimed in a shrill voice:

"Look! there you have Paul's secret—coming out of that passageway. Ah! I'd have bet my life on it!"

Sans-Cravate turned, and saw Bastringuette come out of the house they had just left and turn into Rue Barbette. The tall girl walked quite slowly, and stopped for a moment to take out her handkerchief and wipe her eyes, as if she had been crying; then she walked on.

Sans-Cravate had ample time to examine her; there was no doubt that it was she. He even recognized the silk handkerchief she took from her pocket, for it was a present he had given her. He could not take his eyes from his mistress; his face flushed, and his whole frame shook convulsively.

"It's her," he muttered; "in the same house with him. There's no mystery now—they were together, that's clear as day, the traitors! and, of course, to-day ain't the first time they've met there!"

He started to run after Bastringuette, who had not seen him; and Jean Ficelle, who hoped there would be a scene, rubbed his hands and smiled to himself. But his hope was soon crushed; Sans-Cravate stopped, making a mighty effort to restrain his passion, and retraced his steps.

"No," he said, "I won't go after her; for I might forget myself. When I'm angry, I don't know what I'm doing, and I might do some harm. No; let's go in the other direction!"

"Pardieu! suppose you did give her a beating—a jade that deceived you—I don't see where there'd be any great harm done! Why shouldn't you take that little satisfaction?"

But Sans-Cravate was not listening; he had walked away, and was already at some distance. Jean Ficelle finally decided to follow him, saying to himself:

"Never mind; he's out for good with his wench, and I'm quite sure the young fellow will get what he deserves, when there's a good chance. Then Sans-Cravate will consent to come and play a little game with his friends, and I'll fleece him at table-basse or biribi."