“I do not know,” said Max.  “All I am sure of is that luck comes your way and not mine.  To-morrow you march into St. Denis.”

Geoffrey Faversham marched down at daybreak and formally occupied the quarter.  The aide-de-camp’s calculations were confirmed.  There were at the least 10,000 French soldiers crowded in the district.  Geoffrey’s discretion warned against any foolish effort to disarm them; he simply ignored their chassepots and bulging pouches, and searched the barracks, which the Germans were to occupy, from floor to ceiling.  Late in the afternoon he was able to assure himself that his duty was ended.  He billeted his men, and inquired whether there was a hotel where he could sleep the night.  A French sergeant led him through the streets to an Inn which matched in every detail of its appearance that dingy quarter of the town.  The plaster was peeling from its walls, the window panes were broken, and in the upper storey and the roof there were yawning jagged holes where the Prussian shells had struck.  In the dusk the building had a strangely mean and sordid look.  It recalled to Faversham’s mind the inns in the novels of the elder Dumas and acquired thus something of their sinister suggestions.  In the eager and arduous search of the day he had forgotten these apprehensions to which he had given voice by the camp fire.  They now returned to him with the relaxation of his vigilance.  He looked up at the forbidding house.  “I wonder,” he said to himself.

He was met in the hall by a little obsequious man who was full of apologies for the disorder of his hostelry.  He opened a door into a large and dusty room.

“I will do my best, Monsieur,” said he, “but food is not yet plentiful in Paris.”

In the centre of the room was a large mahogany table surrounded by chairs.  The landlord began to polish the table with his napkin.

“We had an ordinary, Sir, every day before the war broke out.  But most cheerful, every chair had its regular occupant.  There were certain jokes, too, which every day were repeated.  Ah, but it was like home.  However, all is changed as you see.  It has not been safe to sit in this room for many a long month.”

Faversham unstrapped his sword and revolver from his belt and laid them on the table.

“I saw that your house had unfortunately suffered.”

“Suffered!” said the garrulous little man.  “It is ruined, sir, and its master with it.  Ah, war!  It is a fine thing no doubt for you young gentlemen, but for me?  I have lived in a cellar, Sir, under the ground ever since your guns first woke us from our sleep.  Look, I will show you.”

He went out from the dining-room into the hall and from the hall into the street; Faversham followed him.  There was a wooden trap in the pavement close by the wall with an iron ring.  The landlord pulled at the ring and raised the trap disclosing a narrow flight of stone steps.  Faversham bent forward and peered down into a dark cellar.