“She is in a terrible hurry,” he said to himself. “This, however, is scarcely the quarter for a lover’s rendezvous.”
The carriage had passed the Place d’Italie. It entered the Rue du Chateau-des-Rentiers and soon paused before a tract of unoccupied ground.
The door was at once opened, and the Duchesse de Sairmeuse hastily alighted.
Without stopping to look to the right or to the left, she hurried across the open space.
A man, by no means prepossessing in appearance, with a long beard, and with a pipe in his mouth, and clad in a workman’s blouse, was seated upon a large block of stone not far off.
“Will you hold my horse a moment?” inquired Martial.
“Certainly,” answered the man.
Had Martial been less preoccupied, his suspicions might have been aroused by the malicious smile that curved the man’s lips; and had he examined his features closely, he would perhaps have recognized him.
For it was Jean Lacheneur.
Since addressing that anonymous letter to the Duc de Sairmeuse, he had made the duchess multiply her visits to the Widow Chupin; and each time he had watched for her coming.