Corentin, buried in thought, was unable to come to a resolution. The fog which the sun had dispersed at mid-day was now rolling thicker and thicker, so that he could hardly see the trees at a little distance.
“That’s another piece of ill-luck,” he muttered, as he turned slowly homeward. “It is impossible to see ten feet. The weather protects the lovers. How is one to watch a house in such a fog? Who goes there?” he cried, catching the arm of a boy who seemed to have clambered up the dangerous rocks which made the terrace of the Promenade.
“It is I,” said a childish voice.
“Ah! the boy with the bloody foot. Do you want to revenge your father?” said Corentin.
“Yes,” said the child.
“Very good. Do you know the Gars?”
“Yes.”
“Good again. Now, don’t leave me except to do what I bid you, and you will obey your mother and earn some big sous—do you like sous?”
“Yes.”
“You like sous, and you want to kill the Gars who killed your father—well, I’ll take care of you. Ah! Marie,” he muttered, after a pause, “you yourself shall betray him, as you engaged to do! She is too violent to suspect me—passion never reflects. She does not know the marquis’s writing. Yes, I can set a trap into which her nature will drive her headlong. But I must first see Hulot.”