Just then the tempest redoubled its fury: it seemed to the cowering men as though all the devils of the storm were galloping down the wind. Somewhere there was a moon, for scurrying clouds were dancing a witches' saraband across a faintly clearer sky. The unseen moon was mastering the obscurity of this midnight hour. By now, the two sinister beings were nearing the rue du Docteur-Blanche. They were passing a garden, in which tall poplars, caught by the squall, took fantastic shapes: they were nightmare trees, terrifyingly strange. "No more to be said," remarked the Beadle. "The scene is set!... Where is the meeting place?" "A hundred yards from there--a little before the corner of the boulevard Montmorency...." "Good! And the trap?" "It waits for us a little further off." "Who's aboard it?" "Mimile." "That's good." The two men were now half-way along rue Raffet. The watch had begun. Gripped by the cold they waited in silence.... The minutes passed slowly, slowly, in the deserted street ... The Beard put his hand on the Beadle's shoulder.... A vague sound could be heard in the distance: the steps could be distinguished; some pedestrian was coming up the rue Raffet in their direction. "It is he!" whispered the Beadle. "It is he!" affirmed the Beard. "He's not oversteady on his feet!" "Perhaps he's ill shod!" The two spoke low and in a jesting tone: it relieved the painful tension of the moment--a comrade was marching to meet his death, and theirs the hands to deal that death--but not yet: it was a reaction against their sense of the looming tragedy of this dark hour! Now a man's advancing figure could be discerned. He came nearer. He was plainly, by the cut of his garments, an indoor servant. The collar of his coat was turned up: he had his hands in his pockets: he walked fast. "Hey! You down there! The gang!" cried the Beard, hailing the oncoming figure. "Ah, it's you?" "Yes, it's me, comrade." "And you too, Beadle?" "As you say...." "What do you want of me? Since my arrest and escape from the Salad Basket, I'm not anxious to stroll about this neighbourhood--out with it!" The Beard said in a joking tone: "You don't suspect, then? Speak out, Jules!..." Jules--for it was indeed he--shook his head. "My word, I have no idea what you want!... Who wrote to me this morning? Ernestine?" Neither the Beadle nor Beard replied. The three men stood talking in the deserted street, bending their heads and backs under the rain, which was now pouring harder than ever. "Come on then! Make haste!" said Jules. "Come now, tell me what's the point--what's up--spit it out, comrades!... I don't want to be soaked to the skin, you know!" The Beadle forced the pace: he lifted his great hairy sinewy hand, brought it down heavily on Jules' shoulder, and in a changed voice, harsh, rough, imperative, he commanded: "You must follow us!" Already he had his man fast. The unsuspicious Jules did not grasp the situation in the least.