rse of the day an unknown man presented
himself at the hotel where Madame de Lamotte and her son had stayed
before, and inquired what rooms were vacant. There were four, and he
engaged them for a certain Dumoulin, who had arrived that morning from
Bordeaux, and who had passed through Paris in order to meet, at some
little distance, relations who would return with him. A part of the rent
was paid in advance, and it was expressly stipulated that until his
return the rooms should not be let to anyone, as the aforesaid Dumoulin
might return with his family and require them at any moment. The same
person went to other hotels in the neighbourhood and engaged vacant
rooms, sometimes for a stranger he expected, sometimes for friends whom
he could not accommodate himself.

At about three o'clock, the Place de Greve was full of people, thousands
of heads crowded the windows of the surrounding houses. A parricide was
to pay the penalty of his crime--a crime committed under atrocious
circumstances, with an unheard-of refinement of barbarity. The
punishment corresponded to the crime: the wretched man was broken on the
wheel. The most complete and terrible silence prevailed in the multitude
eager for ghastly emotions. Three times already had been heard the heavy
thud of the instrument which broke the victim's limbs, and a loud cry
escaped the sufferer which made all who heard it shudder with horror, 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