The two men were now half-way along rue Raffet. The watch had begun. Gripped by the cold they waited in silence.... The minutes passed slowly, slowly, in the deserted street ... The Beard put his hand on the Beadle's shoulder.... A vague sound could be heard in the distance: the steps could be distinguished; some pedestrian was coming up the rue Raffet in their direction.
"It is he!" whispered the Beadle.
"It is he!" affirmed the Beard. "He's not oversteady on his feet!"
"Perhaps he's ill shod!"
The two spoke low and in a jesting tone: it relieved the painful tension of the moment—a comrade was marching to meet his death, and theirs the hands to deal that death—but not yet: it was a reaction against their sense of the looming tragedy of this dark hour!
Now a man's advancing figure could be discerned. He came nearer. He was plainly, by the cut of his garments, an indoor servant. The collar of his coat was turned up: he had his hands in his pockets: he walked fast.
"Hey! You down there! The gang!" cried the Beard, hailing the oncoming figure.
"Ah, it's you?"
"Yes, it's me, comrade."
"And you too, Beadle?"