CHAPTER XXVI. PARIS IN '95
Our journey was a dreary and wearisome one. The diligence travelled slowly, and as the weather was dull and rainy, the road presented nothing of interest, at least of interest sufficient to combat the grief that still oppressed me. We were upwards of a week travelling before we reached Paris, which I own presented a very different aspect from what my ardent imagination had depicted. The narrow streets were scarcely lighted,—it was night,—the houses seemed poor and mean and dilapidated, the inhabitants rude-looking and ill-dressed. The women especially were ill-favored, and with an air of savage daring and effrontery I had never seen before. Gangs of both sexes patrolled the streets, shouting in wild chorus some popular chant of the time; and as the diligence did not venture to pierce these crowds, we were frequently delayed in our progress to the “bureau,” which was held in the Rue Didier of the Battignolles; for it was in that unfashionable quarter in which my first impressions of the capital were conceived.
“Remember, boy, I am no longer a Count here,” said my companion, as we got out of the conveyance, “I am the citizen Gabriac; and be careful that you never forget it. Take that portmanteau on your shoulder, and follow me!”
We treaded a vast number of streets and alleys, all alike wretched and gloomy, till we entered a little “Place” which formed a “cul de sac” at the end of a narrow lane, and was lighted by a single lantern, suspended from a pole in the centre. This was called the Place de Trieze, in memory, as I afterwards learned, of thirteen assassins who had once lived there, and been for years the terror of the capital. It was now but scantily tenanted, none of the rooms on the ground-floor being inhabited at all; and in some instances an entire house having but one or two occupants. The superstitious terrors that were rife about it (and there were abundance of ghost stories in vogue) could scarcely account for this desertion, for assuredly the fears of a spiritual world could not have proved formidable to the class who frequented it; but an impression had got abroad that it was a favorite resort of the spies of the police, who often tracked the victims to this quarter, or at least here obtained information of their whereabouts. Plague itself would have been a preferable reputation to such a report, and accordingly few but the very poorest and most destitute would accept the shelter of this ill-omened spot.
A single light, twinkling like a faint star, showed through the gloom as we entered, where some watcher yet sat; but all the rest of the “Place” was in darkness. Gabriac threw some light gravel at the window, which was immediately opened, and a head enveloped in a kerchief, by way of nightcap, appeared.
“It is I, Pierre,” cried he; “come down and unbar the door!”
“Ma foi,” said the other, “that is unnecessary. The commissaire broke it down yesterday, searching for 'Torchon,' and the last fragment cooked my dinner to-day.”
“And Torchon, did they catch him?”
“No, he escaped, but only to reach the Pont Neuf, where he threw himself over the balustrade into the river.”