"Such language exasperated me. I was on the point of breaking out and confounding the man of the furred cap whose words, I must say so, were having their effect upon the mob. Some of them had even begun to vituperate Master Marcel and the governors, when suddenly I heard someone behind me say in Latin: 'The water begins to boil, the fish must now be thrown in,' and another voice answered, also in Latin: 'Then let us hasten to notify the master cook.' Seeking to fathom the mysterious meaning of these parables, I turned towards my Latinists at the moment when they began to cry, this time in French: 'Good luck to Maillart, to the devil with Marcel! He is a criminal! A traitor! He plots with the Navarrians! Good luck to Maillart! He alone can put an end to our ills!' A portion of the crowd took up the cries, whereupon the lumbering scamp of the furred cap closed his peroration and came down from the box on which he had been perched. The two Latinists then approached him, and while the crowd was dispersing my three gentlemen stepped aside and conducted an animated discussion. I did not lose sight of them; the three walked on together and I followed, catching these broken words that they let drop: 'rendezvous,' 'horse,' 'arcade of St. Nicholas.' You know how even at mid-day the arcade of St. Nicholas is dark and deserted. Night was falling fast. The idea struck me that my three worthies might be having some suspicious rendezvous at that secluded spot, because the mysterious Latin words would not leave my head. 'The water begins to boil' might mean the boiling of the popular rage; 'the fish that was to be thrown in the boiling water,' might mean Master Marcel; finally, 'the cook who was to be notified'--" "Might be the Regent or Maillart," put in Jocelyn. "I do not believe your penetration was at fault. It is a credit to your sagacity." "And the words 'horse,' 'rendezvous,' 'arcade of St. Nicholas' might mean some messenger on horseback was waiting for my three worthies at that secluded spot. I know the place. Often did Margot.... But I shall drop Margot! I said to myself on the contrary: 'Oh, if now, instead of following the lumbering scamp of the furred cap to the spot so propitious to love, I followed the divine Alison--" The champion again made an impatient gesture, took his friend by the arm, and pointed significantly towards the other end of the chamber where Marcel sat with his forehead leaning on his hand, contemplating the letter that he had just finished reading, and a smile at once bitter and sorrowful playing around his lips. The student grasped Jocelyn's meaning and proceeded in a still lower voice: