After having bowed to Mrs. Goudar, who accompanied them with a radiant smile, they got into the carriage, calling out to the driver,—
“Vine Street, Passy, No. 23.”
This Vine Street is a curious street, leading nowhere, little known, and so deserted, that the grass grows everywhere. It stretches out long and dreary, is hilly, muddy, scarcely paved, and full of holes, and looks much more like a wretched village lane than like a street belonging to Paris. No shops, only a few homes, but on the right and the left interminable walls, overtopped by lofty trees.
“Ah! the place is well chosen for mysterious rendezvouses,” growled Goudar. “Too well chosen, I dare say; for we shall pick up no information here.”
The carriage stopped before a small door, in a thick wall, which bore the traces of the two sieges in a number of places.
“Here is No. 23,” said the driver; “but I see no house.”
It could not be seen from the street; but, when they got in, Mr. Folgat and Goudar saw it, rising in the centre of an immense garden, simple and pretty, with a double porch, a slate roof, and newly-painted blinds.
“Great God!” exclaimed the detective, “what a place for a gardener!”
And M. Folgat felt so keenly the man’s ill-concealed desire, that he at once said,—
“If we save M. de Boiscoran, I am sure he will not keep this house.”