“Have you your handcuffs?” asked the solicitous Mme. Alexandre.
“Yes, yes: make haste and put that letter to M. de Clameran in the post-office, and—and keep good watch.”
And without waiting for his wife’s reply, who cried out, “Good luck!” Fanferlot darted into the street.
Mme. Gypsy had ten minutes’ start of him; but he ran up the street he knew she must have taken, and overtook her near the Change Bridge.
She was walking with the uncertain gait of a person who, impatient to be at a rendezvous, has started too soon, and is obliged to occupy the intervening time; she would walk very rapidly, then retrace her footsteps, and proceed slowly.
On Chatelet Place she strolled up and down several times, read the theatre-bills, and finally took a seat on a bench. One minute before a quarter of nine, she entered the stage-office, and sat down.
A moment after, Fanferlot entered; but, as he feared that Mme. Gypsy might recognize him in spite of his heavy beard, he took a seat at the opposite end of the room, in a dark corner.
“Singular place for a conversation,” he thought, as he watched the young woman. “Who in the world could have made this appointment in a stage-office? Judging from her evident curiosity and uneasiness, I could swear she has not the faintest idea for whom she is waiting.”
Meanwhile, the office was gradually filling with people. Every minute a man would shriek out the destination of an omnibus which had just arrived, and the bewildered passengers would rush in to get tickets, and inquire when the omnibus would leave.
As each new-comer entered, Gypsy would tremble, and Fanferlot would say, “This is he!”