It was a wild wintry night, pitch dark, with gusts of rain and sleet; even the station looked dreary and forlorn, despite the pale brilliance of the electric light. Wrapt in a large travelling cloak, profusely trimmed with fur, and wearing an artistic felt hat, the broad brim of which was drawn down over his face, Gavrolles strolled up and down the platform with a theatrical swagger, taking care to clutch always his little handbag of black morocco. When the ticket office opened he approached the aperture, and, opening a purse full of bright new sovereigns, took a first-class ticket to Boulogne. He looked at nobody, heeded nobody, he seemed too obviously wrapt up in his own happy thoughts. His air, his walk, the feverishly delighted laugh in which he indulged from time to time, all seemed to betoken some special good fortune; and what wonder, seeing he had that very day cashed a large open cheque--payable to ‘Bearer’--at a London bank, and afterwards, at a neighbouring money-changer’s, converted the greater portion of the amount into glittering coin of the French realm. Perhaps, had he been less jubilant and self-involved, he might have taken some little notice of his fellow-passengers--particularly of two individuals who, closely wrapped up and muffled almost to the eyes, observed him from a distance, listened in the shadow when, in a loud voice, he demanded his ticket, and then, after he had withdrawn, took two tickets, also for Boulogne, but second-class. The express left London and plunged into the darkness. Gavrolles found himself alone--for there were few passengers that night--in the smoking compartment of a first-class carriage. While the rain hissed upon the window pane, and the noise of the train drowned even the roaring of the wind, he opened his little handbag, and eagerly recounted his treasure. His eye glittered with delight as he fingered the glittering gold pieces, and found them all safe. Then he wrapt his cloak around him, and resigned himself to a doze. At Folkestone the weather looked ugly in the extreme; the wind roared, and the sea flashed in the darkness, while the packet rocked and throbbed with an uneasy motion. At first Gavrolles hesitated, but his horror of sea-sickness yielded to his intense longing to be again among certain choice spirits on his native soil, and with a few shivering compatriots he crept on board. Among those who followed him were the two men who had watched him so curiously at Charing Cross. The passage was a miserable one. Gavrolles, to whom expense was no consideration when he was in funds, occupied the deck cabin, and suffered agonies through seasickness. In the grey of a wintry morning, he alighted, a piteous spectacle, ghastly, dishevelled, hideous, on the quay at Boulogne.