I had very little difficulty in ascertaining that these were all the very lowest order of "Mouchards," whose sphere of duty rarely led beyond the Fauxbourg or the Battyriolles, and indeed soon saw that my own appearance among them led to no little surprise and astonishment.
"You are looking for Nicquard, monsieur?" said one, "but he has not come yet."
"No; monsieur wants to see Boule-de-Fer," said another.
"Here's José can fetch him," cried a third.
"He'll have to carry him, then," growled out another, "for I saw him in the Morgue this morning!"
"What! dead?" exclaimed several together.
"As dead as four stabs in the heart and lungs can make a man! He must have been meddling where he had no business, for there was a piece of a lace ruffle found in his fingers."
"Ah, voila!" cried another, "that comes of mixing in high society."
I did not wait for the discussion that followed, but stole quietly away, as the disputants were waxing warm. Instead of turning into the Cour again, however, I passed out into a corridor, at the end of which was a door of green cloth. Pushing open this, I found myself in a chamber, where a single clerk was writing at a table.
"You're late to-day, and he's not in a good humor," said he, scarcely looking up from his paper, "go in!"