Of all the populous quarters of Paris which commented on the “affaire Derues,” none showed more excitement than that of the Greve, and amongst all the surrounding streets none could boast more numerous crowds than the rue de la Mortellerie. Not that a secret instinct magnetised the crowd in the very place where the proof lay buried, but that each day its attention was aroused by a painful spectacle. A pale and grief-stricken man, whose eyes seemed quenched in tears, passed often down the street, hardly able to drag himself along; it was Monsieur de Lamotte, who lodged, as we have said, in the rue de la Mortellerie, and who seemed like a spectre wandering round a tomb. The crowd made way and uncovered before him, everybody respected such terrible misfortune, and when he had passed, the groups formed up again, and continued discussing the mystery until nightfall. On April 17th, about four in the afternoon, a score of workmen and gossiping women had collected in front of a shop. A stout woman, standing on the lowest step, like an orator in the tribune, held forth and related for the twentieth time what she knew, or rather, did not know. There were listening ears and gaping mouths, even a slight shudder ran through the group; for the widow Masson, discovering a gift of eloquence at the age of sixty, contrived to mingle great warmth and much indignation in her recital. All at once silence fell on the crowd, and a passage was made for Monsieur de Lamotte. One man ventured to ask— “Is there anything fresh to-day?” A sad shake of the head was the only answer, and the unhappy man continued his way. “Is that Monsieur de Lamotte?” inquired a particularly dirty woman, whose cap, stuck on the side of her, head, allowed locks of grey hair to straggle from under it. “Ah! is that Monsieur de Lamotte?” “Dear me!” said a neighbour, “don’t you know him by this time? He passes every day.” “Excuse me! I don’t belong to this quarter, and—no offence—but it is not so beautiful as to bring one out of curiosity! Nothing personal—but it is rather dirty.” Madame is probably accustomed to use a carriage.” “That would suit you better than me, my dear, and would save your having to buy shoes to keep your feet off the ground!” The crowd seemed inclined to hustle the speaker,— “Wait a moment!” she continued, “I didn’t mean to offend anyone. I am a poor woman, but there’s no disgrace in that, and I can afford a glass of liqueur. Eh, good gossip, you understand, don’t you? A drop of the best for Mother Maniffret, and if my fine friend there will drink with me to settle our difference, I will stand her a glass.” The example set by the old hawker was contagious, and instead of filling two little glasses only, widow Masson dispensed a bottleful. “Come, you have done well,” cried Mother Maniffret; “my idea has brought you luck.” “Faith! not before it was wanted, either!” “What! are you complaining of trade too?” “Ah! don’t mention it; it is miserable!”