ailleur's enemy," she thought. And,
calling her confidential servant, "Quick, Job," she said; "follow M.
de Coralth. I want to know where he is going. And, above all, take care
that he doesn't see you."

V.

If through the length and breadth of Paris there is a really quiet,
peaceful street, a refuge for the thoughtfully inclined, it is surely
the broad Rue d'Ulm, which starts from the Place du Pantheon,
and finishes abruptly at the Rue des Feuillantines. The shops are
unassuming, and so few that one can easily count them. There is
a wine-shop on the left-hand side, at the corner of the Rue de la
Vieille-Estrapade; then a little toy-shop, then a washerwoman's and then
a book-binder's establishment; while on the right-hand you will find
the office of the Bulletin, with a locksmith's, a fruiterer's, and a
baker's--that is all. Along the rest of the street run several spacious
buildings, somewhat austere in appearance, though some of them are
surrounded by large gardens. Here stands the Convent of the Sisters of
the Cross, with the House of Our Lady of Adoration; while further on,
near the Rue des Feuillantines, you find the Normal School, with the
office of the General Omnibus Company hard by. At day-time you mostly
meet grave and thoughtful faces in the street: priests, savants,
professors, and clerks employed in the adjacent public libraries. The
only stir is round about the omnibus office; and if occasional bursts of
laughter are heard they are sure to come from the Normal School. After
nightfall, a person might suppose himself to be at least a hundred
leagues from the Boulevard Montmartre and the Opera-House, in some
quiet old provincial town, at Poitiers, for instance. And it is only on
listening attentively that you can catch even a faint echo of the tumult
of Paris.

It was in this street--"out of the world," as M. de Coralth expressed
it--that Pascal Ferailleur resided with his mother. They occupied a
second floor, a pretty suite of five rooms, looking out upon a garden.
Their rent was high. Indeed, they paid fourteen hundred francs a year.
But this was a burden which Pascal's profession imposed upon him; for
he, of course, required a private office and a little waiting-room for
his clients. With this exception, the mother and son led a straightened,
simple life. Their only servant was a woman who came at seven o'clock to
do the heavy work, went home again at twelve, and did not return again
until the