Gondy dressed himself as an officer, put on a felt cap with a red feather, hung on a long sword, buckled spurs to his boots, wrapped himself in an ample cloak and followed the curate. The coadjutor and his companion passed through all the streets lying between the archbishopric and the St. Eustache Church, watching carefully to ascertain the popular feeling. The people were in an excited mood, but, like a swarm of frightened bees, seemed not to know at what point to concentrate; and it was very evident that if leaders of the people were not provided all this agitation would pass off in idle buzzing. On arriving at the Rue des Prouvaires, the curate pointed toward the square before the church. “Stop!” he said, “there he is at his post.” Gondy looked at the spot indicated and perceived a beggar seated in a chair and leaning against one of the moldings; a little basin was near him and he held a holy water brush in his hand. “Is it by permission that he remains there?” asked Gondy. “No, my lord; these places are bought. I believe this man paid his predecessor a hundred pistoles for his.” “The rascal is rich, then?” “Some of those men sometimes die worth twenty thousand and twenty-five and thirty thousand francs and sometimes more.” “Hum!” said Gondy, laughing; “I was not aware my alms were so well invested.” In the meantime they were advancing toward the square, and the moment the coadjutor and the curate put their feet on the first church step the mendicant arose and proffered his brush. He was a man between sixty-six and sixty-eight years of age, little, rather stout, with gray hair and light eyes. His countenance denoted the struggle between two opposite principles—a wicked nature, subdued by determination, perhaps by repentance. He started on seeing the cavalier with the curate. The latter and the coadjutor touched the brush with the tips of their fingers and made the sign of the cross; the coadjutor threw a piece of money into the hat, which was on the ground. “Maillard,” began the curate, “this gentleman and I have come to talk with you a little.” “With me!” said the mendicant; “it is a great honor for a poor distributor of holy water.” There was an ironical tone in his voice which he could not quite disguise and which astonished the coadjutor. “Yes,” continued the curate, apparently accustomed to this tone, “yes, we wish to know your opinion of the events of to-day and what you have heard said by people going in and out of the church.” The mendicant shook his head. “These are melancholy doings, your reverence, which always fall again upon the poor. As to what is said, everybody is discontented, everybody complains, but ‘everybody’ means ‘nobody.’” “Explain yourself, my good friend,” said the coadjutor. “I mean that all these cries, all these complaints, these curses, produce nothing but storms and flashes and that is all; but the lightning will not strike until there is a hand to guide it.”