“What does anyone know about it?” he said at last... “But, when the comrades told us, were they the slightest surprised, one and all? Nibet, Toulouche, even Mimile – they didn’t hesitate, not one of them!... Well then, old ’un, as all the pals were of one mind, why hesitate? What’s the use of discussing!... but, between you and me, I don’t relish it either – it bothers me to go for a brother!” Just then the tempest redoubled its fury: it seemed to the cowering men as though all the devils of the storm were galloping down the wind. Somewhere there was a moon, for scurrying clouds were dancing a witches’ saraband across a faintly clearer sky. The unseen moon was mastering the obscurity of this midnight hour.

By now, the two sinister creatures were nearing the rue du Docteur-Blanche. They were passing a garden, in which tall poplars, caught by the squall, took fantastic shapes: they were nightmare trees, terrifyingly strange.

“No more to be said,” remarked the Beadle. “Spokes and spears – the scene is set!... Where is the meeting place?”

“A hundred yards from there – a little before the corner of the boulevard Montmorency. Good as graves.”

“Good! And the trap?”

“It waits for us a little further off.”

“Who’s aboard it?”

“Mimile.”

“That’s good.”

The two men were now half-way along rue Raffet.

The watch had begun. Gripped by the cold they waited in silence... The minutes passed slowly, slowly, in the deserted street... The Beard put his hand on the Beadle’s shoulder... A vague sound could be heard in the distance; steps could be distinguished; some pedestrian was coming up the rue Raffet in their direction.

“It’s him!” hissed the Beadle.

“It is!” affirmed the Beard. “He’s not over steady on his feet!”

“Perhaps he’s ill-shod!”

The two spoke low and in a jesting tone: it relieved the painful tension of the moment – a comrade was marching to meet his death, and theirs the hands to deal that death – but not yet: it was a reaction against their sense of the looming tragedy of this dark hour.

Now a man’s advancing figure could be discerned.

He came nearer. He was plainly, by the cut of his garments, an indoor servant. The collar of his coat was turned up: he had his hands in his pockets: he walked fast.

“Hey! You down there! The gang!” cried the Beard, hailing the oncoming figure.

“Ah, it’s you?

“Yes, it’s me, comrade.”

“And you too, Beadle?”

“As you say.”

“What do you want of me? Since my arrest and escape from the meat wagon, I’m not anxious to hang about this neighbourhood – come, out with it!”

The Beard said in a joking tone:

“You don’t suspect then? Speak out Jules!” Jules – for it was indeed he – shook his head.