"Why, it's a filthy hotel," observed the doctor. "I know it well; a regular hovel."
"You needn't tell me! And it will be a hard piece of work, for me, at least. . . . But, by Jove, I wouldn't sell this moment for a fortune! Who dares pretend that life is monotonous?"
They reached the Hôtel des Deux-Empereurs. A muddy alley; two steps down; and they entered a passage lit by a flickering lamp.
Sernine knocked with his fist against a little door.
A waiter appeared, Philippe, the man to whom Sernine had given orders, that morning, concerning Gérard Baupré.
"Is he here still?" asked the prince.
"Yes."
"The rope?"
"The knot is made."
"He has not received the telegram he was hoping for?"