My brain was reeling as I made my way back to the river’s edge for a breath of pure air and a glimpse of God’s blue sky unsullied by the miasma of disease and filth. Then I turned again to my work, peering into reeking courts, along foul alleys, under noisome doorways, my hand always on my sword, for I detected everywhere black looks and threatening gestures which would have meant death had I been unprepared. But nowhere did I catch a glimpse of Mère Fouchon, and at last, sick at heart, and with every organ of my body in revolt, I turned away and went slowly back to the Rue du Chantre.
As I entered the court, I saw the concierge beckoning to me eagerly from his box, and I hastened to him.
“What is it?” I asked. “You have something to tell me?”
“Yes, Monsieur,” he answered, with a smile. “You were asking this morning about my predecessor.”
“Well, what then?” and I endeavored to control my impatience.
“She sent this morning for some clothing she had left behind.”
“Yes, yes. Go on.”
“She sent a girl, a gamine, only so high, all rags, all dirt, a horrible sight.”
“Make haste!” I cried. “What then?”
“Well, I gave this girl the clothes, Monsieur. She took them and went away.”