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.