A thousand varied thoughts agitated M. d'Harville. One minute he fancied that his wife, fearing pursuit, had taken this step to escape detection; then hope whispered that the letter which had given him so much uneasiness, might after all be only an infamous calumny; for if guilty, what could be gained by this false assumption of piety? Would it not be a species of sacrilegious mockery? At this suggestion a bright ray of hope shot across the troubled mind of M. d'Harville, arising from the striking contrast between Clémence's present occupation and the crime alleged as her motive for quitting her home. Alas! this consolatory illusion was speedily destroyed. Leaning in at the open window the coachman observed: "I say, master, that nice little woman you are after has got back into her coach." "Then follow quickly." "I'm off! Now this is what I call downright good fun. Capital; hang me if it ain't!" The vehicle reached the Quais, the Hôtel de Ville, the Rue St. Avoye, and, at last, Rue du Temple. "I say," said the coachman, turning round to speak to M. d'Harville from his seat, "master, just look. My mate, there, has stopped at No. 17; we are about at 13. Shall I stop here or go on to 17?" "Stop here." "I say,--look'ee,--you'll lose your pretty lady. She has gone into the alley leading to No. 17." "Open the door." "I'm coming, sir." And quickly following the steps of his wife, M. d'Harville entered the obscure passage up which she had disappeared. Madame d'Harville, however, had so far the start as to have entered the house previously. Attracted by the most devouring curiosity, Madame Pipelet, with her melancholy Alfred and her friend the oyster-woman, were huddled close together on the sill at the lodge door. The staircase was so dark that a person just emerging from the daylight into the gloom of the passage could not discern a single step of it; and Madame d'Harville, agitated and almost sinking with apprehension, found herself constrained to apply to Madame Pipelet for further advice how to proceed, saying, in a low, tremulous voice: "Which way must I turn, madame, to find the staircase of the house?" "Stop, if you please. Pray, whom do you want?" "I wish to go to the apartments of M. Charles, madame." "Monsieur who?" repeated the old woman, feigning not to have heard her, but in reality to afford sufficient leisure to her husband and her friend thoroughly to scrutinise the unhappy woman's countenance, even through the folds of her thick veil. "M. Charles, madame," repeated Clémence, in a low, trembling tone, and bending down her head, so as to escape the rude and insolent examination to which her features were subjected.