as followed us several times, as I think, when
I have waited for my wife at the wicket of the Louvre to escort her
home."

The commissary now appeared to experience a little uneasiness.

"And his name?" said he.

"Oh, as to his name, I know nothing about it; but if I were ever to meet
him, I should recognize him in an instant, I will answer for it, were he
among a thousand persons."

The face of the commissary grew still darker.

"You should recognize him among a thousand, say you?" continued he.

"That is to say," cried Bonacieux, who saw he had taken a false step,
"that is to say--"

"You have answered that you should recognize him," said the commissary.
"That is all very well, and enough for today; before we proceed further,
someone must be informed that you know the ravisher of your wife."

"But I have not told you that I know him!" cried Bonacieux, in despair.
"I told you, on the contrary--"

"Take away the prisoner," said the commissary to the two guards.

"Where must we place him?" demanded the chief.

"In a dungeon."

"Which?"

"Good Lord! In the first one handy, provided it is safe," said the
commissary, with an indifference which penetrated poor Bonacieux with
horror.

"Alas, alas!" said he to himself, "misfortune is over my head; my
wife must have committed some frightful crime. They believe me her
accomplice, and will punish me with her. She must have spoken; she must
have confessed everything--a woman is so weak! A dungeon! The first he
comes to! That's it! A night is soon passed; and tomorrow to the wheel,
to the gallows! Oh, my God, my God, have pity on me!"

Without listening the least in the world to the lamentations of M.
Bonacieux--lamentations to which, besides, they must have been pretty
well accustomed--the two guards took the prisoner each by an arm,
and led him away, while the commissary wrote a letter in haste and
dispatched it by an officer in waiting.

Bonacieux could not close his eyes; not because his dungeon was so very
disagreeable, but because his uneasiness was so great. He sat all night
on his stool, starting at the least noise; and when the first rays of
the sun penetrated into his chamber, the dawn itself appeared to him to
have taken funereal tints.

All at once he heard his bolts drawn, and made a terrified bound. He
believed they were come to conduct him to the scaffold; so that when he
saw merely and simply, instead of the executioner he expected, only his
c