orror,
One man only, who, in spite of all his efforts, could not get
through the crowd and cross the square, remained unmoved, and looking
contemptuously towards the criminal, muttered, "Idiot! he was unable to
deceive anyone!"

A few moments later the flames began to rise from the funeral pile, the
crowd began to move, and the than was able to make his way through and
reach one of the streets leading out of the square.

The sky was overcast, and the grey daylight hardly penetrated the narrow
lane, hideous and gloomy as the name it bore, and which; only a few
years ago, still wound like a long serpent through the mire of this
quarter. Just then it was deserted, owing to the attraction of the
execution close by. The man who had just left the square proceeded
slowly, attentively reading all the inscriptions on the doors. He
stopped at Number 75, where on the threshold of a shop sat a stout
woman busily knitting, over whom one read in big yellow letters, "Widow
Masson." He saluted the woman, and asked--

"Is there not a cellar to let in this house?"

"There is, master," answered the widow.

"Can I speak to the owner?"

"And that is myself, by your leave."

"Will you show me the cellar? I am a provincial wine merchant, my
business often brings me to Paris, and I want a cellar where I could
deposit wine which I sell on commission."

They went down together. After examining the place, and ascertaining
that it was not too damp for the expensive wine which he wished to leave
there, the man agreed about the rent, paid the first term in advance,
and was entered on the widow Masson's books under the name of Ducoudray.
It is hardly necessary to remark that it should have been Derues.

When he returned home in the evening, his wife told him that a large box
had arrived.

"It is all right," he said, "the carpenter from whom I ordered it is a
man of his word." Then he supped, and caressed his children. The next
day being Sunday, he received the communion, to the great edification of
the devout people of the neighbourhood.

On Monday the 16th Madame de Lamotte and Edouard, descending from the
Montereau stagecoach, were met by Derues and his wife.

"Did my husband write to you, Monsieur Derues?" inquired Madame de
Lamotte.

"Yes, madame, two days ago; and I have arranged our dwelling for your
reception."

"What! but did not Monsieur de Lamotte ask you to engage the rooms I
have had before at the Hotel de France?"

"