Müller looked grave.
"I would drop it this moment," he said, "if--if it were not for the girl."
"Who is still less worth the cost,"
"I know it," he replied, impatiently. "She has a pretty, sentimental Madonna face; a sweet voice; a gentle manner--et voilà tout. I'm not the least bit in love with her now. I might have been. I might have committed some great folly for her sake; but that danger is past, Dieu merci! I couldn't love a girl I couldn't trust, and that girl is a flirt. A flirt of the worst sort, too--demure, serious, conventional. No, no; my fancy for the fair Marie has evaporated; but, for all that, I don't relish the thought of what her fate might be if linked for life to an unscrupulous scoundrel like Lenoir. I must do what I can, my dear fellow--I must do what I can."
We had by this time rounded the Halles, and were threading our way through one gloomy by-street after another. The air was chill, the sky low and rainy; and already the yellow glow of an oil-lamp might be seen gleaming through the inner darkness of some of the smaller shops. Meanwhile, the dusk seemed to gather at our heels, and to thicken at every step.
"You are sure you know your way?" I asked presently, seeing Müller look up at the name at the corner of the street.
"Why, yes; I think I do," he answered, doubtfully.
"Why not inquire of that man just ahead?" I suggested.
He was a square-built, burly, shabby-looking fellow, and was striding along so fast that we had to quicken our pace in order to come up with him. All at once Müller fell back, laid his hand on my arm, and said:--
"Stop! It is Guichet himself. Let him go on, and we'll follow."