"I know it to be a falsehood," the latter retorted, with fiery quickness. "Those people are his enemies. I have it on the word of an honest man and a Canadian."
[CHAPTER XXIV]
A CURIOUS PROFESSION
It so happened that about midnight Germain crossed the Seine by the Petit-Pont, a bridge not so public as the Pont-Neuf, and, regardless of the robberies always occurring, plunged among the crooked streets of the Latin Quarter. He had not walked far before a carriage, driving swiftly away from a small lane or passage, attracted his notice. At the bottom of the passage was a door having a lamp over it; upon the lamp some letters and a device. He stopped and read—
"Mtre. Gilles,
Genealogist."
The street in which he stood was a small cross street. He walked on and left it, but the lamp, the inscription and the carriage haunted him like one of those things which so often takes part in our reasoning before we see its drift. All at once it became clear, he clutched at the hope, retraced his steps to the small street, arrived at the passage, and went up it to the door. The genealogist himself, a little red-faced man with an agreeable air, a brown periwig, and a smart suit of black Lyons' silk, was taking in his sign and preparing to put out the light in it.
"An instant, Monsieur Gilles," said Lecour, stopping him.
"With pleasure, sir," Gilles answered without surprise, and returning the lamp, opened the door, showing a narrow stair.
Germain mounted and passed into a chamber, whose furniture was of considerable elegance, and the gloom of which was relieved by a single wax candle on a brass-footed table.
On the table were a mass of parchments which the genealogist had been examining and tall cupboards, open drawers, and bookcases full of his library stood around. A host of old portraits of all kinds and sizes gave rich colour to the walls.