He signed the letter “Bibi.” Thus he had mentioned no names and in addition taken the precaution of disguising his writing as far as he was able. After which he sealed the letter and slipped it in the inner pocket of his coat. Time was now hanging heavily. Like a beast in its cage, Chauvelin paced up and down the narrow room, his hands clenched behind his back, a world of soul agony expressed upon his wax-like face.
As soon as he heard the tower-clock of Notre-Dame strike eight, he picked up his hat and cloak and once more sallied forth into the streets.
XXX
A quarter of an hour later two out-at-elbows ragamuffins met inside the Café de la Lune. Outside the rain had not abated, both the men, who were clad in what were little more than rags, appeared soaked through to the skin. At this hour the little café was almost deserted. Citizen Sabot, the proprietor, was sitting at one table with a couple of friends; at another a couple of road-menders were sipping their absinthe, when the scavenger from the prison house came slouching in. He sat down on the bench against the wall in the darkest corner of the room and ordered a bottle of wine for himself and a friend. Presently the latter came and joined him, and for a while the two men sat drinking in silence. Soon an animated discussion arose between the proprietor and his friends on the respective merits of Vouvray and Beaujolais as a table wine.
This entailed much shouting and copious gesticulations. Sabot had a deep-booming voice which reverberated from end to end of the room and caused the windowpanes to rattle in their frames.
The scavenger from the prison house had apparently drunk more during the day than was good for him. His head leaned heavily on his hand, his elbow resting upon the table, his eyes had become bleary, his speech uncertain. His friend sat opposite to him, with his back to the rest of the company, and when Sabot’s voice roused the echoes in the small stuffy room, he leaned forward and whispered in the other’s ear:
“I had an adventure after I left you this afternoon.”
“Eh?” the scavenger murmured incoherently.
“Where?”
“At the angle of the Rue Longue I was pounced upon in the darkness and dragged under the shelter of a doorway. A man had me by the shoulder. He had seen me talking with you. He offered me fifty livres and the same for you, if you will give a letter to a certain prisoner in there.”
And he nodded in the direction of the high walls of the Caristie house. His friend’s reply to this preliminary statement was a prolonged snore.
“The prisoner to whom you are to give the letter is number 142 in room 12,” the other went on, still speaking below his breath. “Who is that? Do you know?”
The scavenger from the prison house waited for a moment or two until the discussion at the next table was specially loud-tongued, then he murmured:
“Yes! It is the girl Fleurette.”
“Ah!” remarked his friend.
“Who was the man who spoke to you?”
“I don’t know. It was pitch-dark. He wore a broad-brimmed hat and spoke in a hoarse whisper.”
“Her father, probably. The man Armand, I have marvelled why we did not hear from him before. What have you arranged?”
“That I meet him under the same doorway, after I’ve seen you. He will then give me the letter.”
“We’ll keep to that then. But try and see the man. I might recognize him by your description.”
He paused for a moment or two, yawned, stretched, emptied his mug of wine and then went on. “If I went myself I might scare him off. So it is best you should go. But try and see his face. I’ll wait here till you come.”
After which he ordered another bottle of wine. Sabot broke away from his friends in order to serve his customer.
“You’ve had about as much as you ought to have, citizen Rémi,” he said dryly, as he uncorked the bottle and set it on the table.
“That is none of your business, citizen,” Rémi retorted with a bibulous laugh, “so long as I pay for what I drink.”
He threw some coins on the table. Sabot picked them up with a shrug and then rejoined his friends, and resumed the discussion with them on the merits or demerits of Vouvray and Beaujolais. The other ruffian took the opportunity of shuffling out of the café, and the scavenger, sprawling over the table, composed himself to sleep.
Hugging the walls, the other slunk through the street till he came to the doorway, where effectively he had appointed to meet Chauvelin.
“Well!” the latter queried impatiently as soon as the other came in sight. “Have you seen your friend?”
“Yes.”
“Does he agree?”
“Yes.”
With a sigh of relief Chauvelin drew the sealed letter from his breast pocket.
“Fifty livres, remember,” he said slowly, “for each of you, when you bring me back the answer.”
“Oh!” the man exclaimed, visibly disappointed. “There’s an answer then?”
“Yes! An answer. Your friend will see to it that you bring me back either an answer or some token which will satisfy me that the letter is in the right hands.”
The man gave a short laugh.
“You do not trust me, citizen,” he said.
“No,” Chauvelin replied laconically. “I do not.”
“I do not blame you,” the other retorted. “I do not trust you altogether either. How do I know, when Rémi and I have risked our lives in your service, that the money will be forthcoming?”
“You do know that, citizen,” Chauvelin rejoined dryly, “and anyway you are bound to take that risk.”
“Why should I?” the man retorted.
“Because you are more sorely in need of money than I of your services.”
This argument appeared unanswerable. At any rate the ruffian now said with a light laugh:
“Have
