Again she whispered, but laughed this time, showing her yellow teeth. Meanwhile the showman had been fortunate and a dozen new-comers crowded into the tent, pressing the others aside. This afforded an opportunity for the hunchback to approach the young man, who had remained by the bier as if chained to the ground. Le Bossu touched his arm, at first lightly, but finding himself unheeded, he jerked the other’s sleeve. The stranger started and stared at him as if he had just awakened from sleep. “A word with you, friend,” said the hunchback, softly. The man hesitated, started, paused and cast another long look at the dead face, and then followed the cripple through the group at the door, out into the sunshine and uproar of the market-place. They were not unobserved by Mère Tigrane, but she made no effort to follow them; she was watching the new arrivals as they approached the corpse. As she saw their faces of curiosity and horror, she laughed. “_Mère de Dieu!_” she said, “’tis worth a half-crown after all--and I paid Adolphe in false coin too, _pauvre garçon_!” In the market-place, the stranger had halted with the hunchbacked cobbler. “What do you want?” he demanded of le Bossu; “I do not know you.” “You were in danger,” replied the hunchback, quietly, “and you are in trouble; the _bon Dieu_ knows that I also am in trouble.” The little man’s tone, his deformity, his kind eyes appealed to the other. “We should be friends,” he said grimly. “_Dieu!_ I am indeed in trouble.” The hunchback made a sign to him to be cautious, the crowd hemmed them in, the monkey chattered, the bear danced, Mademoiselle Héloïse was singing a savory song from Paris. The whole square was white with the sunshine; above, the sky was deeply blue. “Follow me, friend,” said le Bossu again, and commenced to thread his way through the crowd. His new acquaintance hesitated a moment, cast a backward glance at the tent he had just quitted, and then quietly followed the hunchback. They had to cross the market-place, and the little cobbler seemed to be widely known. Goodwives greeted him, young girls giggled heartlessly before the misshapen figure passed, men nodded indifferently, the maliciously disposed children calling out “_le Bossu!_” at him as he went. A heartless rabble out for a gala day; what pity had they for the hunchbacked shoemaker of the St. Antoine? The man who followed him escaped notice; he was straight-limbed and erect, and his shabby dress disguised him as completely as any masquerade. When they had left the crowd behind, they walked together, but still silently, along the thoroughfare. The groups of pleasure-seekers grew more rare as they advanced, and they were almost alone when they passed the Garden of the Récollets--the Franciscan Convent--and entered the Rue St. Antoine. Here it was that the stranger roused himself and addressed his companion. “Where are we going?” he asked sharply.