Worn out with fatigue, hungry and cold—for the nights were now very chill—and without a sou in his pocket, poor Gabriel, having wandered for some hours among the streets of this great city, now emptied of all but its crime and destitution, at last found shelter for the night in an empty cask, which had served probably as a dog-kennel in an open workyard into which he strayed. In this he made his bed with a few armfuls of shavings, and, spite of the cold, slept soundly till morning.
Had it not been for the charity of a poor woman, who gave him a piece of black bread, he might have starved. Refreshed, however, with this dainty, he prosecuted his rambles. Among other wonderful sights, he saw the splendid equipages of many of the nobility, drawn up in the street before the mansion of the minister, who was holding a levee. Fortune seemed to have directed his steps thither, for he saw a familiar face among the splendid throng who glided in and out at the great man's portals. This was no other than the Marquis de Secqville, who was passing to his carriage.
"Oh, pray, Monsieur Dubois, monsieur, don't you know me?"
So cried poor Gabriel in his eagerness, forcing himself to the front rank of the crowd.
"No, my good friend, no," answered the marquis, hesitating and surprised; "I do not recollect you."
"Don't you recollect the park of Charrebourg, monsieur, and the boy who sometimes carried your game, Gabriel, who was so frequently your attendant?"
"Hey! by my faith, so it is."
"Well, but monsieur, I want to consult you about a lady who, I fear, is in distress."
"Well, let us hear," continued the marquis, feeling in his pocket for his purse, and smiling.
"It is Mademoiselle Lucille—that is, I mean, Madame Le Prun. You have heard of her, perhaps?"