He felt a strange lump in his throat, his nose began to tickle a little, and, before he was aware of it, a big tear fell on the paper.

He looked hastily around, took out his pocket-handkerchief, and carefully wiped the wet place on the bill.  He thought again of the old banker in the Rue Bergere.

What did it matter to him that Alphonse’s weak character had at last led him to crime, and what had he lost?  Nothing, for did he not hate his former friend?  No one could say it was his fault that Alphonse was ruined—­he had shared with him honestly, and never harmed him.

Then his thoughts tamed to Alphonse.  He knew him well enough to be sure that when the refined, delicate Alphonse had sunk so low, he must have come to a jutting headland in life, and he prepared to leap out of it rather than let disgrace reach him.

At this thought Charles sprang up.  That must not be.  Alphonse should not have time to send a bullet through his bead and hide his shame in the mixture of compassion and mysterious horror which follows the suicide.  Thus Charles would lose his revenge, and it would be all to no purpose that he had gone and nursed his hatred until he himself had become evil through it.  Since he had forever lost his friend, he would at least expose his enemy, so that all should see what a miserable, despicable being was this charming Alphonse.

He looked at his watch; it was half-past four.  Charles knew the cafe in which he would find Alphonse at this hour; he pocketed the bill and buttoned his coat.

But on the way he would call at a police-station, and hand over the bill to a detective, who at a sign from Charles should suddenly advance into the middle of the cafe where Alphonse was always surrounded by his friends and admirers, and say loudly and distinctly so that all should hear it: 

“Monsieur Alphonse, you are charged with forgery.”

It was raining in Paris.  The day had been foggy, raw, and cold; and well on in the afternoon it had begun to rain.  It was not a downpour—­the water did not fall from the clouds in regular drops—­but the clouds themselves had, as it were, laid themselves down in the streets of Paris and there slowly condensed into water.

No matter how people might seek to shelter themselves, they got wet on all sides.  The moisture slid down the back of your neck, laid itself like a wet towel about your knees, penetrated into your boots and far up your trousers.

A few sanguine ladies were standing in the portes cocheres, with their skirts tucked up, expecting it to clear; others waited by the hour in the omnibus stations.  But most of the stronger sex hurried along under their umbrellas; only a few had been sensible enough to give up the battle, and had turned up their collars, stuck their umbrellas under their arms, and their hands in their pockets.

Although it was early in the autumn it was already dusk at five o’clock.  A few gas-jets lighted in the narrowest streets, and in a shop here and there strove to shine out in the thick wet air.