As for Franz, he, as we have seen, had not been so successful in evading the representatives of law and order. And he had returned, having escaped from durance vile, bringing with him a strangely developed stock of his Mother's fierceness and his Father's cunning. It was a part of Papa's policy to be, at all times, provided with a "retreat." Not content with an abiding-place for the present, the pair had always, somewhere within an easy distance from their present abode, a second haven, fitted with the commonest necessaries of life, but seldom anything more, and always ready to receive them. Hence, in fleeing from the scene of the Siebel affray, they had gone to the attic which stood ready to shelter them, where they had been traced by Vernet, and followed by Franz. And on the night when they had left Van Vernet to a fiery death, they had flown straight to another ready refuge. This time it was a cottage, old and shabby, but in a respectable quarter on the remotest outskirts of the city. This cottage, like the B--street tenement, stood quite isolated from its neighbors, for it was one of Papa's fine points to choose ever a solitary location, or else lose himself in a locality where humanity swarmed thickest, and where each was too eager in his own struggle for existence to be anxious or curious about the affairs of his neighbors. This cottage, then, was shabby enough, but not so shabby as their former dwelling, either within or without. Neither did Papa and Mamma present quite so uncanny an appearance as before. They were somewhat cleaner, a trifle better clad, and somewhat changed in their general aspect, for here they were presuming themselves to be "poor but honest" working people, like their neighbors. In this pretence they were ably supported by Franz, when he was sober. And drunkenness not being strictly confined to the wealthier classes, he cast no discredit upon the honesty of his parents by being frequently drunk. Papa and Mamma were regaling themselves with a late supper, consisting principally of beer and "Dutch bread," and as usual, when _tête-à-tête_, they were engaged in a lively discussion. "I don't like the way that boy goes on," remarks Mamma, as she cuts for herself a slice of the bread. Papa sets down his empty beer glass, and tilts back his chair. "Don't ye?" he queries carelessly. "No, I don't," retorts Mamma with increasing energy. "He's getting too reckless, and he swigs too much." "_That's_ a fact," murmurs Papa, glancing affectionately at the beer pitcher. "He'd ought ter lay low for a good while yet," goes on Mamma, "instead of prowling off at all hours of the day and night. Why, he's gone more'n he's here." Papa Francoise brought his chair back into regular position with a slow movement, and leaning his two elbows upon the table, leered across at Mamma.