and on his own initiative.  In his own mind he had already decided that he would wait until Madame la Comtesse came out of the concierge’s lodge, and that he would follow her and apprehend her somewhere out in the open streets, rather than here where her friend Bertin might prove to be a stalwart as well as a desperate man, ready with a pistol, whilst he—­Tournefort—­was unarmed.  Bertin, who had, it seemed, been entrusted with the task of finding the diamonds, could then be shadowed and arrested in the very act of filching property which by decree of the State belonged to the people.

So he waited patiently for a while.  No doubt the aristo would remain here under shelter until the storm had abated.  Soon the sound of voices died down, and an extraordinary silence descended on this miserable, abandoned corner of old Paris.  The silence became all the more marked after a while, because the rain ceased its monotonous pattering and the soughing of the wind was stilled.  It was, in fact, this amazing stillness which set citizen Tournefort thinking.  Evidently the aristo did not intend to come out of the lodge to-night.  Well!  Tournefort had not meant to make himself unpleasant inside the house, or to have a quarrel just yet with the traitor Bertin, whoever he was; but his hand was forced and he had no option.

The door of the lodge was locked.  He tugged vigorously at the bell again and again, for at first he got no answer.  A few minutes later he heard the sound of shuffling footsteps upon creaking boards.  The door was opened, and a man in night attire, with bare, thin legs and tattered carpet slippers on his feet, confronted an exceedingly astonished servant of the Committee of Public Safety.  Indeed, Tournefort thought that he must have been dreaming, or that he was dreaming now.  For the man who opened the door to him was well known to every agent of the Committee.  He was an ex-soldier who had been crippled years ago by the loss of one arm, and had held the post of concierge in a house in the Ruelle du Paradis ever since.  His name was Grosjean.  He was very old, and nearly doubled up with rheumatism, had scarcely any hair on his head or flesh on his bones.  At this moment he appeared to be suffering from a cold in the head, for his eyes were streaming and his narrow, hooked nose was adorned by a drop of moisture at its tip.  In fact, poor old Grosjean looked more like a dilapidated scarecrow than a dangerous conspirator.  Tournefort literally gasped at sight of him, and Grosjean uttered a kind of croak, intended, no doubt, for complete surprise.

“Citizen Tournefort!” he exclaimed.  “Name of a dog!  What are you doing here at this hour and in this abominable weather?  Come in!  Come in!” he added, and, turning on his heel, he shuffled back into the inner room, and then returned carrying a lighted lamp, which he set upon the table.  “Amelie left a sup of hot coffee on the hob in the kitchen before she went to bed.  You must have a drop of that.”