CHAPTER XVI

A COUNCIL OF WAR

As I slipped through the wicket I cast a hurried glance around me, and then, acting on the impulse of the moment, ran forwards along the road for about fifty paces, with Babette's dagger clenched in my hand. There I was brought to a stand by a dead wall, studded with iron spikes at the top, which rose sheer above me for fully twenty feet and barred all further progress. It was evident that the Toison d'Or stood in a blind alley, and that I had taken the wrong turning. Not even an ape could have scaled the moss-grown and slippery surface of those stones, and, leaning against a buttress in the darkest corner of the wall, I stood for a moment or so and waited, determined to sell my life as dearly as possible should I be pursued. There was no sound, however; all was still as the grave. I ran my eye down the road, but the moon was not bright enough to penetrate the shadows, and I could make out nothing except the many-storied and gabled buildings that, packed closely to each other, beetled over the passage. The hanging turrets projecting from these houses were for all the world like gigantic wasps' nests, such as are seen clinging to the rocks of the upper Dordogne. Here and there a turret window showed a light glimmering behind it, and, had I time, I might have pictured to myself a resemblance between this 'beetle-browed' passage to that of some long, narrow, and sluggish mountain tarn, guarded on each side by an impassable barrier of frowning rocks. It was, however, not a moment to let oneself be impressed by scenery, and, eyes and ears on the stretch, I peered into the indistinct light to see the slightest movement, to catch the slightest sound. But the silence remained undisturbed. It was an eyrie of night-hawks, and they were hunting now far from their nests. So I stole forth from the shadow of the buttress, and, keeping the dagger ready to strike, retraced my steps past the Toison d'Or and along the winding and crooked passage, keeping as far away from the walls as possible to avoid any sudden attack, until at last I found myself in a cross street, down which I went, taking note of such landmarks as I could to guide me back, when I should return with vengeance in my right hand. The cross street led into other winding and twisting lanes, whose squalid inhabitants were either flitting up and down, or quarrelling amongst themselves, or else sitting in a sullen silence. I guessed I had got myself into one of the very worst parts of Paris, and as I had heard that it was more than dangerous to be recognised in such places as one not belonging to the noble order of cut-purses, I did not halt to make inquiries, but pursued my way steadily along the labyrinth of streets, feeling more lost at every step I took. Once or twice I passed a street stall, and, as the flare of the torches which lit up its gruesome contents fell on me, I was looked at curiously; but so soiled and wet was I, so torn my cloak and doublet in the struggle with de Gomeron's bravos, that at the most they took me for a night-hawk of superior feather, whose plumes had been ruffled by a meeting with the law. That I inspired this idea was evident, indeed, from the way in which one terrible-looking old man leaned forwards and, shaking his palsied finger at me, croaked out:

'Run, captain; run, Messire de Montfaucon!'

I hurried past as fast as I could, followed by the laughter of those who heard the remark, thinking to myself it was lucky it was no worse than a jibe that was flung at me.

How long I wandered in that maze of streets I cannot say, but at last I came upon an open space, and, finding it more or less empty, stopped to take my bearings. My only chance to get back to my lodging that night--and it was all-important to do so--was to strike the Seine at some point or other; but in what direction the river lay, I could not, for the life of me, tell. At last I determined to steer by the moon, and, holding her track to the south-west of me, went on, keeping as a landmark on my left the tall spire of a church whose name I then did not know. So I must have plodded on for about an hour, until at last I was sensible that the street in which I was in was wider than the others I had passed through, and, finally, I saw before me a couple of lanterns, evidently slung on a rope that stretched across a street much broader still than the one I was in. That, and the sight of the lanterns, convinced me that I had gained one of the main arteries of the city, and it was with an inward 'Thank God!' that I stepped under the light and looked about me, uncertain which direction I should take, for if I kept the moon behind me, as I had done hitherto, I should have to cross over and leave the street, and I felt sure this would be a serious error that would only lead me into further difficulties. It was as yet not more than a half-hour or so beyond compline, so the street was full. And unwilling to attract the attention of the watch, which had a habit of confining its beat to places where it was least required, I began to stroll slowly down, determined to inquire the way of the first passer-by who looked in a mood amiable enough to exchange a word with so bedraggled a wretch as I was then.

I had not long to wait, for in a short time I noticed one who was evidently a well-to-do citizen hurrying along, with a persuading staff in his right hand, and the muffled figure of a lady clinging on to his left arm. I could make out nothing of her; but the man himself was short and stout of figure, and I ran to the conclusion that he must be a cheery soul, for, as far as I could see by the light of the street lamps, he looked like one who enjoyed a good meal and a can to follow, and approaching, I addressed him--

'Pardon, monsieur, but I have lost my way.'

I had hardly spoken so much, when, loosening his arm from the lady, the little man jumped back a yard, and began flourishing his stick.

I saw that in the next moment he would shout for the watch, and stopped him with a quick--

'Monsieur, I have been attacked and robbed--there,' and I pointed in the direction whence I had come. 'I have escaped but with my life, and I pray you tell me how to find my way to the Rue de Bourdonnais.' The lady, who had at first retreated with a little cry of alarm behind her companion, here stepped forward with a soft--

'Poor man! are you much hurt?'

'Not in the least, mademoiselle, thank you,' and I unconsciously moved a step forward.

'Stand back!' called out the little man, dabbing his stick at me, 'and say Madame, sir--the lady is my wife.'

'Pardon my error, sir, but----'

The lady, however, interposed--

'Be still. Mangel. So you wish to find the Rue de Bourdonnais, sir?'

'He had better find the watch,' interrupted Maître Mangel; 'they have gone that way, towards the Porte St. Martin.'

'This, then, is the----'

'Rue St. Martin.'

'A hundred thanks, mademoiselle.'

'Madame--_Madame_ Mangel, monsieur.'

'Pardon, I now know where I am, and have only to follow my nose to get to where I want. I thank you once more, and good night.'

'Good night, monsieur,' answered Madame; but Maître Mangel, who was evidently of a jealous complexion, tucked his wife under his arm and hurried her off, muttering something under his breath.

I let my eye follow them for a moment or so, and ere they had gone many paces, Madame Mangel, who appeared to be of a frolicsome spirit, turned her head and glanced over her shoulder, but was immediately pulled back with a jerk by her husband, whose hand moved in much the same manner as that of a nervous rider when clawing at the reins of a restive horse. Then I, too, turned and went down in an opposite direction along the Rue St. Martin, smiling to myself at the little