She made no answer, but looked with a sort of satisfaction at the men who were starting, under command of the sub-lieutenant, for the Promenade, while others, following the next orders given by Hulot, were to post themselves in the shadows of the church of Saint-Leonard. “There are houses adjoining mine,” she said; “you had better surround them all. Don’t lay up regrets by neglecting a single precaution.” “She is mad,” thought Hulot. “Was I not a prophet?” asked Corentin in his ear. “As for the boy I shall send with her, he is the little gars with a bloody foot; therefore--” He did not finish his sentence, for Mademoiselle de Verneuil by a sudden movement darted in the direction of her house, whither he followed her, whistling like a man supremely satisfied. When he overtook her she was already at the door of her house, where Galope-Chopine’s little boy was on the watch. “Mademoiselle,” said Corentin, “take the lad with you; you cannot have a more innocent or active emissary. Boy,” he added, “when you have seen the Gars enter the house come to me, no matter who stops you; you’ll find me at the guard-house and I’ll give you something that will make you eat cake for the rest of your days.” At these words, breathed rather than said in the child’s ear, Corentin felt his hand squeezed by that of the little Breton, who followed Mademoiselle de Verneuil into the house. “Now, my good friends, you can come to an explanation as soon as you like,” cried Corentin when the door was closed. “If you make love, my little marquis, it will be on your winding-sheet.” But Corentin could not bring himself to let that fatal house completely out of sight, and he went to the Promenade, where he found the commandant giving his last orders. By this time it was night. Two hours went by; but the sentinels posted at intervals noticed nothing that led them to suppose the marquis had evaded the triple line of men who surrounded the three sides by which the tower of Papegaut was accessible. Twenty times had Corentin gone from the Promenade to the guard-room, always to find that his little emissary had not appeared. Sunk in thought, the spy paced the Promenade slowly, enduring the martyrdom to which three passions, terrible in their clashing, subject a man,--love, avarice, and ambition. Eight o’clock struck from all the towers in the town. The moon rose late. Fog and darkness wrapped in impenetrable gloom the places where the drama planned by this man was coming to its climax. He was able to silence the struggle of his passions as he walked up and down, his arms crossed, and his eyes fixed on the windows which rose like the luminous eyes of a phantom above the rampart. The deep silence was broken only by the rippling of the Nancon, by the regular and lugubrious tolling from the belfries, by the heavy steps of the sentinels or the rattle of arms as the guard was hourly relieved. “The night’s as thick as a wolf’s jaw,” said the voice of Pille-Miche.