As soon as he was in the street, the pretended Bohemian walked at a gait which did not resemble that of an old man; he went hastily along Rue Saint-Honoré toward the Hôtel de Mongarcin. There he stopped, looked about in all directions, and listened for sounds inside the house, where some windows were still lighted; then he tried to pierce the darkness that prevailed in the street; for at that time Paris was very poorly lighted, or, rather, was not lighted at all. Toward the beginning of the sixteenth century, the Parisians had been ordered to place lighted lanterns in front of their houses, but the order had never been strictly complied with. And even when a lantern was placed before a door, it contained only a candle; so that you can judge how much light it was likely to give and how long it would burn. From time to time, one spied a bright light in the distance, but it did not remain in one place; and when it happened to come toward you, you discovered that it was a torchbearer. In most cases, that industry was carried on by children; there was a bureau on the Estrapade, where boys were supplied with torches to provide light for persons using the streets at night. After a few moments' reflection, our Bohemian suddenly walked on; he continued up the street, and took what seemed to him the shortest road to Rue Saint-Jacques. But, as he walked, he scrutinized carefully every woman whom he met; to be sure, his curiosity found few subjects to investigate, for it was nearly ten o'clock, which was very late at that period; so that but few people were abroad; and a woman who appeared in the street alone, at that time of night, might well expect that people would form a very poor opinion of her and treat her accordingly. But as he drew near the fortress called the Grand Châtelet, the Bohemian stopped; he had espied a woman, alone, who was looking about her and seemed not to know which way to turn. She made up her mind at last, and was starting toward the Petit-Pont, when a voice called to her: "Where are you going, Miretta? You are wrong; that is not your road." At the first sound of that voice, Miretta--for it was she--stopped as if paralyzed by surprise; but it had no sooner ceased to speak than she cried out, with a delight which she could not hold in check: "That voice--oh! it is his! I cannot be mistaken! Where are you, Giova----" Before the girl could finish the name, the pretended Bohemian had taken her in his arms and strained her to his heart, saying in an undertone: "Hush! hush! never utter that name! for it would be my destruction! it would be condemning me to death!"