Behold us, then, at the time prescribed, lounging in the doorway of a small shop adjoining the private entrance to Madame Marot’s house; our hands in our pockets; our cigars in our mouths; our whole attitude expressive of idleness and unconcern.  The wintry evening has closed in rapidly.  The street is bright with lamps, and busy with passers-by.  The shop behind us is quite dark—­so dark that not the keenest observer passing by could detect the dusky group of soldiers sitting on the counter within, or the gleaming of the musket-barrels which rest between their knees.  The sergeant in command, a restless, black-eyed, intelligent little Gascon, about five feet four in height, with a revolver stuck in his belt, paces impatiently to and fro, and whistles softly between his teeth.  The men, four in number, whisper together from time to time, or swing their feet in silence.

Thus the minutes go by heavily; for it is weary work waiting in this way, uncertain how long the watch may last, and not daring to relax the vigilance of eye and ear for a single moment.  It may be for an hour, or for many hours, or it may be for only a few minutes-who can tell?  Of Lenoir’s daily haunts and habits we know nothing.  All we do know is that he is wont to be out all day, sometimes returning only to dress and go out again; sometimes not coming home till very late at night; sometimes absenting himself for a day and a night, or two days and two nights together.  With this uncertain prospect before us, therefore, we wait and watch, and watch and wait, counting the hours as they strike, and scanning every face that gleams past in the lamplight.

So the first hour goes by, and the second.  Ten o’clock strikes.  The traffic in the street begins perceptibly to diminish.  Shops close here and there (Madame Marot’s shutters have been put up by the boy in the oilskin apron more than an hour ago), and the chiffonnier, sure herald of the quieter hours of the night, flits by with rake and lanthorn, observant of the gutters.

The soldiers on’ the counter yawn audibly from time to time; and the sergeant, who is naturally of an impatient disposition, exclaims, for the twentieth time, with an inexhaustible variety, however, in the choice of expletives:—­

“Mais; nom de deux cent mille petards! will this man of ours never come?”

To which inquiry, though not directly addressed to myself, I reply, as I have already replied once or twice before, that he may come immediately, or that he may not come for hours; and that all we can do is to wait and be patient.  In the midst of which explanation, Mueller suddenly lays his hand on my arm, makes a sign to the sergeant, and peers eagerly down the street.

There is a man coming up quickly on the opposite side of the way.  For myself, I could recognise no one at such a distance, especially by night; but Mueller’s keener eye, made keener still by jealousy, identifies him at a glance.