He had hardly crossed the western iron gate, when Théodore reappeared at the corner of a writer's hut. The occupant of the hut accompanied him.
"At what hour are the iron gates closed?" asked Théodore of this man.
"At five o'clock."
"Then what do they do here?"
"Nothing; the hall remains empty till next day."
"No rounds, no visits?"
"No, sir; our barracks are locked."
The word "sir" made Théodore knit his brows, and look round with distrust.
"Are the crowbar and pistols safe in the barracks?" said he.
"Yes, under the carpet."