After these words he went off rapidly. But Trumence did not march off in the opposite direction, as had been agreed upon.
“Anyhow,” said the poor vagrant to himself, “this is a curious story about the poor gentleman. Where on earth can he be going?”
And, curiosity getting the better of prudence, he followed him.
XXVIII.
Jacques de Boiscoran went straight to Mautrec Street. But he knew with what horror he was looked upon by the population; and in order to avoid being recognized, and perhaps arrested, he did not take the most direct route, nor did he choose the more frequented streets. He went a long way around, and well-nigh lost himself in the winding, dark lanes of the old town. He walked along in Feverish haste, turning aside from the rare passers-by, pulling his felt hat down over his eyes, and, for still greater safety, holding his handkerchief over his face. It was nearly half-past nine when he at last reached the house inhabited by Count and Countess Claudieuse. The little gate had been taken out, and the great doors were closed.
Never mind! Jacques had his plan. He rang the bell.
A maid, who did not know him, came to the door.
“Is the Countess Claudieuse in?” he asked.
“The countess does not see anybody,” replied the girl. “She is sitting up with the count, who is very ill to-night.”
“But I must see her.”