"Do you propose to tell us the history of Pont-Neuf, Monsieur Bahuchet?"
"No, mademoiselle, no; excuse me. My story has to do with a much less cheerful bridge, the dismal Pont-aux-Choux!"
At the mention of the Pont-aux-Choux, Miretta involuntarily shuddered and listened more closely to what the little clerk said.
"Yes, mademoiselle; it was close by the Pont-aux-Choux that the horrible tragedy, which was discovered only this morning, took place.—I was saying—where was I?—Oh, yes! I was about to return to my solicitor's office, when, as I was taking a glass in a wine shop, I heard a peasant say to a good woman—I say a good woman, she may have been a bad one, but it's the custom, you know, to say good woman when you are speaking of a woman advanced in years—he said: 'Yes, mother, there has been someone murdered on the road I take from Faubourg Saint-Antoine to the Market. And I tell you, it isn't very pleasant; I don't know yet whether I shall dare to go across Pont-aux-Choux after dark.'
"My curiosity being aroused at that, I accosted the peasant and asked him what he meant, and he answered:
"'About two hours ago, they found in the Fossés Jaunes——'"
"What are the Fossés Jaunes, Monsieur Bahuchet?" said Valentine; "I am very ignorant, am I not? but we are taught so few things!"
"The Fossés Jaunes, mademoiselle, were made in the time of King Charles V, and they surrounded the outer wall of Paris that was built long ago, in the time of Philippe-Auguste; they extend from the Bastille to Porte Saint-Honoré."
"Are they filled with water?"
"There used to be water in them, no doubt, mademoiselle, but for a long time they have contained nothing but muddy pools, in which very tall grass grows, and from which it isn't at all easy to get out if you happen to fall in. But as they are no longer of any use, I presume they will very soon be filled up.—I resume my narrative. The peasant said: