We treaded a vast number of streets and alleys, all alike wretched and gloomy, till we entered a little “Place” which formed a “cul de sac” at the end of a narrow lane, and was lighted by a single lantern, suspended from a pole in the centre. This was called the Place de Trieze, in memory, as I afterwards learned, of thirteen assassins who had once lived there, and been for years the terror of the capital. It was now but scantily tenanted, none of the rooms on the ground-floor being inhabited at all; and in some instances an entire house having but one or two occupants. The superstitious terrors that were rife about it (and there were abundance of ghost stories in vogue) could scarcely account for this desertion, for assuredly the fears of a spiritual world could not have proved formidable to the class who frequented it; but an impression had got abroad that it was a favorite resort of the spies of the police, who often tracked the victims to this quarter, or at least here obtained information of their whereabouts. Plague itself would have been a preferable reputation to such a report, and accordingly few but the very poorest and most destitute would accept the shelter of this ill-omened spot. A single light, twinkling like a faint star, showed through the gloom as we entered, where some watcher yet sat; but all the rest of the “Place” was in darkness. Gabriac threw some light gravel at the window, which was immediately opened, and a head enveloped in a kerchief, by way of nightcap, appeared. “It is I, Pierre,” cried he; “come down and unbar the door!” “Ma foi,” said the other, “that is unnecessary. The commissaire broke it down yesterday, searching for 'Torchon,' and the last fragment cooked my dinner to-day.” “And Torchon, did they catch him?” “No, he escaped, but only to reach the Pont Neuf, where he threw himself over the balustrade into the river.” “And was drowned?” “Doubtless, he was.” “I scarcely regret him,” said Gabriac. “And I not at all,” replied the other. “Good night;” and with this he closed the window, leaving us to find our way as best we could. I followed Gabriac as he slowly groped his way up the stairs and reached a door on the third story, of which he produced the key. He struck a light as he passed in, and lighted a small lamp, by which I was enabled to see the details of a chamber poorer and more miserable than anything I had ever conceived. A board laid upon two chairs served for a table, and some wood-shavings, partially covered by a blanket, formed a bed; a couple of earthenware pipkins comprised the cooking utensils, and a leaden basin supplied the provisions for the toilet. “Lie down there and take a sleep, Jasper, for I have no supper for you,” said Gabriac; but his voice had a touch of compassionate gentleness in it which I heard for the first time. “And you, sir,” said I, “have you no bed?”