Bruslart’s pace was rapid for a short distance, then he went more slowly and thoughtfully; but there was no relapse into the despair in which Barrington had found him that evening.  Contact with a strong man, and the compact made with him, had apparently restored his nerves, and no one knew better than he did how necessary it was to have every faculty in working order at the present moment.  He had told Barrington that he was in no danger from the fact of mademoiselle having been arrested in his apartments, and if this were not quite true, he felt certain that he could evade the danger by presenting a bold front to it.  The desire to convince himself that this was possible became stronger as he proceeded slowly, and opportunity to put his conviction to the test might easily be found.

“There would be no one at the prison to-night on whom I could make any useful impression,” he said to himself.  “I shall gain more by swaggering to the crowd.”

He quickened his pace, but not in the direction of the prison.  He turned into a side street, at the corner of which was a broken lamp bracket used for hanging a man not a week ago.  He glanced up at it as he passed, recognizing perhaps that he was as a skater on thin ice, his safety entirely dependent upon his agility, as he made his way to the flare of light which came from a wine shop.

The place was full and noisy, but there was a sudden silence as he entered.  He was well-known here, and every pair of eyes was fixed upon him keenly.  That he bore the scrutiny without flinching proved him to be no coward.  The attitude of the crowd in the wine shop was not reassuring.  His task was to be more difficult than he imagined, and he rose to the occasion.  With a careless nod intended to comprehend every one in the room, and as though he perceived nothing extraordinary in the manner of his reception, he crossed the room to a man who had suspended his game of cards to stare at him.

“Good evening, Citizen Sabatier; you can tell me something.  Was that aristocrat taken to the Abbaye this afternoon or where?”

“To the Abbaye.”

“I was going to the prison to ask, then thought I might save myself a journey by coming here on my way.  Wine, landlord—­the best, and in these days the best is bad.  You were not at the taking of this aristocrat, Sabatier?” and as he asked the question Bruslart seated himself.

“No.  I had other business.”

“It is a pity.  Had you been there the affair would have been conducted with more order.”

“I was there, Citizen Bruslart,” said a man, thrusting forward his head truculently.  “What is there to complain of?”

Bruslart looked at him, then leaned toward Sabatier and said in an audible aside—­

“A new friend?  I do not seem to remember him.”

“Citizen Boissin, a worthy man,” said Sabatier, shortly.  He knew that the men in the wine shop were likely to follow his lead, and he was at a loss to know how to treat Lucien Bruslart to-night.