"Sacrédié! what do you expect to be summoned for? Let's go right away; I long to have it over with."
"All right, let's go."
"But I don't know where the magistrate lives; do you, Jean Ficelle?"
"Yes, it ain't very far from here; come, I'll show you the way."
"And Paul hasn't come yet; but perhaps we shall find him at the magistrate's, too."
The two messengers soon reached their destination.
There are four police magistrates for each arrondissement of Paris, which makes forty-eight for the whole city. That is none too large a number for such a huge, densely populated, turbulent city, where so many things happen every day.
A lantern suspended over the door indicates the magistrate's residence; his office is rarely a particularly attractive apartment; but there is no occasion for him to go to much expense for the benefit of the society he ordinarily receives there, and cleansing would be a useless luxury. Those who come thither are not even accustomed to wipe their feet on the mat—when there is one.
You enter the office, where the magistrate's clerk and secretary are usually to be found, although sometimes the latter official has his desk in another room. Then comes the magistrate's private office, to which everybody is not admitted.
Just as Sans-Cravate and Jean Ficelle arrived, a corporal and two soldiers brought in two women and a boy, the latter holding in his arms a small black dog, evidently a very young puppy.