It was M. Moche. The old man was even dirtier than usual, his hat crammed down over his ears—a huge topper, all dinted and dulled; his brow was wrinkled in deep and serious thought. It was eleven in the forenoon when the usurer of the Rue Saint-Fargeau had taken up his position on the foot-bridge thrown across the narrow sluice-gates separating the basin of La Villette from the Canal de l’Ourcq and connecting the two sections of the Rue de Crimée. Heedless of anything passing about him, M. Moche looked down at the current, in which the man’s common, cunning features were reflected as in a mirror. But at the same time he kept ever and anon casting furtive glances towards the bottom of the street. At last the old fellow shook off his lethargy. From the far end of the Rue de Crimée he had caught sight of a man dressed in a long white blouse who was pushing before him a wheel-barrow loaded up with a workman’s tools. The barrow bumped up and down over the uneven pavement as the man advanced slowly along the road, for the load seemed a heavy one. Still, in course of time the modest vehicle reached the bridge. The workman let go the handles, mopped his brow—it was a blazing hot day—and then, after a glance round, he saw M. Moche and stepped up to him. It was plain enough the two had met by appointment, for they seemed in no way surprised at the _rencontre_. The pair began talking in low tones: “You were waiting for me, M. Moche?” “Why, yes, I was waiting for you, waiting without much hoping you’d come; still I waited.” The workman mopped his forehead again, muttering in a weary voice: “I’ve had the devil’s own job of it this morning, I can tell you!” “Poor fellow!” observed Moche, a note of ironical commiseration in his voice. Then the old business man went on: “It’s uncommon seldom, all the same, one sees you sweating yourself; when a man has a ‘bee in his bonnet’ like you ...” The workman laughed: “Say a hiveful of ’em, Père Moche, and you’ll be nearer truth. God! I can’t deny it, hard work’s not my strong point.” But old Moche, suddenly putting on an air of sternness and anxiety, questioned: “Tell me, Paulet, how goes the work in question?” The young apache, who for the nonce, bore the stamp of the most respectable of working men, replied eagerly: “The work’s done, M. Moche. Oh! I give you my word I’ve put in a desperate hard four hours over the job; I’ve never in all my life done such a day’s work for the masters. True,” added the pale-faced young loafer, “it was no ordinary job I had on.... Just you think ...” But Moche interrupted him: “That’s all right, that’s all right, Paulet; no need to go gassing here about matters that concern only you and me. You shall tell me the whole story by-and-by if things have gone well. Come along and have a glass with me.” “And my barrow?” queried Paulet.