Meanwhile, Madame Ferailleur was approaching the station. The cab horse soon slackened its pace to climb the acclivity of the Rue d’Amsterdam; and shortly afterward the vehicle drew up in the courtyard of the railway station. Faithfully observing the directions which had been given her, the worthy woman had her trunks taken to the baggage-room, declaring that she should not leave Paris until the next day, whereupon she received a receipt from the man in charge of the room. She was oppressed by vague apprehensions, and looked closely at every one who passed her; fearing the presence of spies, and knowing full well that the most profound secrecy could alone insure the success of Pascal’s plans. However, she did not see a single suspicious looking person. Some Englishmen--those strange travellers, who are at the same time so foolishly prodigal and so ridiculously miserly--were making a great hue and cry over the four sous gratuity claimed by a poor commissionaire; but these were the only persons in sight. Partially reassured, Madame Ferailleur hastily ascended the staircase, and entered the large waiting-room. It was here that Pascal had promised to meet her; but, though she looked round on all sides, she did not perceive him. Still, this delay did not alarm her much; nor was it at all strange, since Pascal had scarcely known what he would have to do when he left the house. She seated herself on a bench, as far back in the shade as possible and gazed sadly at the ever-changing throng, when all of a sudden she was startled by a man, who abruptly paused in front of her. This man proved to be Pascal. But his hair had been closely cut, and he had shaved off his beard. And thus shorn, with his smooth face, and with a brown silk neckerchief in lieu of the white muslin tie he usually wore, he was so greatly changed that for an instant his own mother did not recognize him. “Well?” asked Madame Ferailleur, as she realized his identity. “I have succeeded. We have secured such rooms as I wished for.” “Where?” “Ah!--a long way off, my poor mother--many a league from those we have known and loved--in a thinly populated part of the suburbs, on the Route de la Revolte, just outside the fortifications, and almost at the point where it intersects the Asnieres road. You will not be very comfortable there, but you will have the pleasure of a little garden.” She rose, summoning all her energy. “What does it matter where or what our abode is?” she interrupted, with forced gayety. “I am confident that we shall not remain there long.” But it seemed as if her son did not share her hopes, for he remained silent and dejected; and as his mother observed him closely, she fancied by the expression of his eyes, that some new anxiety had been added to all his other troubles. “What is the matter?” she inquired, unable to master her alarm--“what has happened?” “Ah! a great misfortune!” “My God! still another?”