mined to return alone to the post assigned, and pass the night there, even if I died on the spot. I then returned to the Pologne, and ensconced myself in a corner, that I might not be seen by Delzève, in case he should come.
For an hour and a half I remained in this position, until my blood congealed, and I felt my courage weakening, when suddenly a luminous idea shone upon me.—At a short distance was a dunghill, whose smoke betrayed a state of fermentation: this depôt is called the "voirie" (lay-stall): I ran towards it; and having made a hole in one corner, sufficiently deep to admit me up to my waist, I jumped into it, and a comfortable warmth soon re-established the circulation of my blood. At five in the morning, I was still in my lurking-place, where I did very well, except from the fumes which invaded my nostrils. At length the door of the house, which was the one pointed out to me, opened to let out a woman, who did not shut it after her. Instantly, and without noise, I leaped from the dung-heap; and entering the court looked about me, but saw no light from any part.
I knew that Delzève's associates had a peculiar way of whistling for him; it was the coachman's whistle, and known to me; I imitated it; and, at the second attempt, I heard some one exclaim, "Who calls?"
"It is the 'chauffeur' (a coachman from whom Delzève had learnt to drive) who whistles for l'Écrevisse (the crab)."
"Is it you?" cried the same voice, which I knew to be Delzève's.
"Yes; the chauffeur wants you. Come down."
"I am coming—wait a minute."
"It is very cold," I replied; "I will wait for you at the public-house at the corner; make haste—do you hear?"
The public-house was already open; for, on new-year's day, they have custom betimes. But I was not tempted to drink; and that I might trap Delzève, I
