ot hear them; but as Agricola stopped suddenly, with a start, the old
soldier said to him,

"Well, boy, what is it?"

"Nothing, father," said the blacksmith, turning round; "I feared I did
not light you well."

"Oh, stand at ease about that; I have the legs and eyes of fifteen to
night;" and the soldier, not noticing his son's surprise, went into the
little room where they were both to pass the night.

On leaving the house, after his inquiries about Mother Bunch, the
over polite Paul Pry slunk along to the end of Brise-Miche Street. He
advanced towards a hackney-coach drawn up on the Cloitre Saint-Merry
Square.

In this carriage lounged Rodin, wrapped in a cloak.

"Well?" said he, in an inquiring tone.

"The two girls and the man with gray moustache went directly to Frances
Baudoin's; by listening at the door, I learnt that the sisters will
sleep with her, in that room, to-night; the old man with gray moustache
will share the young blacksmith's room."

"Very well," said Rodin.

"I did not dare insist on seeing the deformed workwoman this evening
on the subject of the Bacchanal Queen; I intend returning to-morrow, to
learn the effect of the letter she must have received this evening by
the post about the young blacksmith."

"Do not fail! And now you will call, for me, on Frances Baudoin's
confessor, late as it is; you will tell him that I am waiting for him
at Rue du Milieu des Ursins--he must not lose a moment. Do you come with
him. Should I not be returned, he will wait for me. You will tell him it
is on a matter of great moment."

"All shall be faithfully executed," said the ceremonious man, cringing
to Rodin, as the coach drove quickly away.

CHAPTER XXXI. AGRICOLA AND MOTHER BUNCH.

Within one hour after the different scenes which have just been
described the most profound silence reigned in the soldier's humble
dwelling. A flickering light, which played through two panes of glass
in a door, betrayed that Mother Bunch had not yet gone to sleep; for
her gloomy recess, without air or light, was impenetrable to the rays
of day, except by this door, opening upon a narrow and obscure passage,
connected with the roof. A sorry bed, a table, an old portmanteau, and a
chair, so nearly filled this chilling abode, that two persons could not
possibly be seated within it, unless one of them sat upon the side of
the bed.

The magnificent and precious flower that Agricola had given to the girl
was carefull