“I believe you, monsieur,” and she looked into my eyes. “Madame and myself both feel that we can trust you. We are happy to have found such an ally.”
I thanked her again and took my leave, as Polignac came to us and engaged her in conversation, for I was ill at ease. It seemed to me that I was being dragged into the conspiracy much deeper than I had bargained for, and yet I saw no way to extricate myself, however much I might wish to do so. And I realized more vividly than ever that I was not made for intrigue.
I was anxious to have the errand done, and I hurried from the place and made my way to the Rue Jean St. Denis, down which I turned until I reached the Rue de Beauvais. Here an unforeseen difficulty confronted me, for though I knew I was to leave the papers with the concierge of the corner house, I did not know which corner. As the Rue Jean St. Denis ended here, there were only two corners to choose from, and I looked at these with attention. The building on the right was a handsome edifice of four stories, extending down the Rue de Beauvais to the Rue Fromenteau, and along the Rue Jean St. Denis a corresponding distance. I reflected that Hérault would not be likely to choose the concierge of such an imposing edifice as a depository for his papers, and turned my attention to the opposite side. The corner house here was a small one, stuck in, as it were, to fill an angle left by the two adjoining buildings. It was only two stories in height, the ground floor being occupied by a cabaret which seemed well patronized. I decided at once that this was the place, and, pulling my hat down over my eyes and wrapping my cloak about my face, I approached it.
I looked about, but could discover no sign of a concierge, and turned the corner into the Rue de Beauvais. Here fortune favored me, for I found a little court which gave entrance to the interior of the building. In one corner of this court was a hut of one room, with a large window commanding the entrance. By the candle within I saw a little old man sitting at a table, apparently asleep. I opened the door.
“Are you the concierge?” I asked, touching him with my foot.
He awoke with a start and sat blinking at me.
“I asked if you are the concierge,” I repeated.
“The concierge?” he stammered. “Yes, yes. What is it, monsieur?”
“You sometimes receive papers and letters, do you not?”
“Sometimes, monsieur.”