Noll roused, called to the waiter, paid him, and strolled into the night....
The waiters came out and cleared away the tables and chairs and put up the shutters.
The lights went out.
The faces that had stared out of the night sank on to drowsy chests, and the wastrels of the boulevards fell asleep on their hard benches.
One fellow amongst them arose, yawned, and drowsily shuffled down the road to a bench that was not so crowded; he lay down upon it, and fell asleep.
He had scarcely fallen into a drowse when a dim slouching figure came out of the black drizzle that was setting in, and, hesitating near him, peered into his face—put out his hand and touched the sleeping man upon the shoulder:
“Comrade,” said he, “it’s going to be a wet night. This is wretched shelter for a master mind.”
The other roused, uttered an oath, laughed grimly:
“What is it?” he asked.
“Gavroche,” said the stooping man in a hoarse whisper—“the mists are rising from the river.” He looked up and down the road cautiously: “There’s a drunken carter has lost his way and is wandering on the quays. Perhaps he would have fallen into the river anyway.”