ted by the refuse of the
Parisian population; freed felons, thieves, and assassins are there
familiar guests. If a crime is committed, it is here, in this filthy
sewer, that the police throws its cast-net, and rarely fails to catch
the criminals it seeks to take.

On the night in question, the wind howled fiercely in the dark and dirty
gullies of the Cite; the blinking and uncertain light of the lamps which
swung to and fro in the sudden gusts were dimly reflected in pools of
black slush, which flowed abundantly in the midst of the filthy
pavement.

The murky-coloured houses, which were lighted within by a few panes of
glass in the worm-eaten casements, overhung each other so closely that
the eaves of each almost touched its opposite neighbour, so narrow were
the streets. Dark and noisome alleys led to staircases still more black
and foul, and so perpendicular that they could hardly be ascended by the
help of a cord fixed to the dank and humid walls by holdfasts of iron.

Stalls of charcoal-sellers, fruit-sellers, or venders of refuse meat
occupied the ground floor of some of these wretched abodes.
Notwithstanding the small value of their commodities, the fronts of
nearly all these shops were protected by strong bars of iron,--a proof
that the shopkeepers knew and dreaded the gentry who infested the
vicinity.

The man of whom we have spoken, having entered the Rue aux Feves, which
is in the centre of the Cite, slackened his pace: he felt he was on his
own soil. The night was dark, and strong gusts of wind, mingled with
rain, dashed against the walls. Ten o'clock struck by the distant dial
of the Palais de Justice. Women were huddled together under the vaulted
arches, deep and dark, like caverns; some hummed popular airs in a low
key; others conversed together in whispers; whilst some, dumb and
motionless, looked on mechanically at the wet, which fell and flowed in
torrents. The man in the carter's frock, stopping suddenly before one of
these creatures, silent and sad as she gazed, seized her by the arm, and
said, "Ha! good evening, La Goualeuse."[2]

[2] Sweet-throated: in reference to the tone of her voice.

The girl receded, saying, in a faint and fearful tone, "Good evening,
Chourineur.[3] Don't hurt me."

[3] One who strikes with the knife; the stabber, or slasher.

This man, a liberated convict, had been so named at the hulks.

"Now I have you," said the fellow; "you must pay me the glass of 'tape'
(