The next day, about the time appointed by La Marmotte, I presented myself at Maitre Barou, the armourer’s, store. There was no one there except the old proprietor himself, and it was hard to say if he were Jew or Gentile as he stood behind the counter in the midst of his wares. I had sufficient excuse for my visit, and that was to purchase a breastplate of the pattern worn by the Queen’s guards, in which I had been formally enrolled early in the day.

“Bien!” he said when I inquired for one, “I have one that will fit you, I think. It was bespoke by M. de Montorgueil ”

“But, perhaps, monsieur may have a voice in the matter.”

“Probably; but as monsieur has not paid for it, and is at present lodged in the Chatelet on account of his escapade with Mademoiselle d’Estanay, we may let that objection pass.” And Maitre Barou chuckled.

“In that case, let me see the corselet.”

“Here it is, monsieur.”

I tried it on, and finding it would suit, and that the workmanship was of rare excellency, demanded the price.

Barou hummed as he tapped the shining steel with his finger and glanced at me from under his bushy brows.

“Monsieur must have but lately joined the guards?” he asked, ignoring my question.

“A matter of a few hours.”

“Ah! I thought so. I know them all, monsieur. First there is Messire Blaise de Lorgnac, the lieutenant ”

“Maitre Barou, it will take till to-morrow to go over the names. What is your price?”

“Ho! ho! messire, you grow impatient. ’Tis Aranguez plate this, as you may see the best work of Spain, down to the buckles. Ho! ho! messire, only two good things ever came from Spain: one is good armour, and the other pretty women ”

“And I presume, Maitre Barou, they are both expensive things; but the price of your corselet, for my time is short.”

“Fifty pistoles, then.”

“’Tis a long sum, and I am not sure of the proof.”

Maitre Barou looked at me reproachfully. Seizing a poniard he glanced at the blade for a moment, touched the point with the tip of his finger, and then raising the weapon brought it down with his full force on the corselet. The dagger glanced off from the mirror-like surface and buried itself deep in the hard wood of the counter.

“There, monsieur!” And Barou looked at me triumphantly. It was a shrewd enough test, and I closed the bargain, paying him his money then and there, and bidding him send the mail to De Lorgnac’s house.

“And the name, monsieur?”

“The Chevalier d’Orrain.”

As Barou was making an entry on a slate I heard a step behind me, and turning saw it was La Marmotte. She made no sign of recognition, however, but went straight up to Barou, to whom she handed a small package, giving him some instructions in a low tone. Taking the hint I gave a casual glance or so at the things around me, and then strolled out of the shop. I walked very slowly up the street in the direction opposite De Lorgnac’s house, and I had scarce gone a hundred paces when La Marmotte caught me up, and asked me somewhat abruptly if I knew of a place called the Passage of Pity. I replied that I did, and she then told me to meet her there in an hour’s time, and to be sure I was well armed. For answer I touched the hilt of my sword; and, with a nod to me, she crossed the street and disappeared up a narrow, winding alley. I kept on at the leisurely pace I was going at, wondering to myself if I were walking into a snare or not. But, although caution is a very good thing, still there are times when one should be prepared to take risks, and I held this was such an occasion. Having now reached the head of the Rue Tiquetonne I quickened my pace, and was soon in the Vallee de Misere. I avoided the bridge, and, crossing the river by a ferry boat, was soon in the purlieus of the Sorbonne. Every inch of this locality was familiar to me, and at last I reached the cloisters of the Mathurins, a few yards from which lay the narrow by-street which the quaint wit of the Parisian badaud had christened the Passage of Pity. It was dark and short so short, indeed, that an active boy, standing at one end of it, might easily have thrown a stone against the high wall of a house built athwart the other end of the road, apparently barring all progress beyond. This was not the case, however, for the narrow arch, that was to all appearance the entrance to the house, gave access to a small flight of steps, worn with age, that led towards a gallery opening upon the Rue de la Harpe.

In the wall towards the right of this arch, about a man’s height from the ground, was a small niche containing a figure of the Virgin, and beneath was that which, perhaps, had given its name to the street, for someone had traced in shaky characters upon the wall the words: “Avez pitié!”

Beneath these words, written in blood long since browned with age, could still be seen the impress of a hand that had been red too, as if the unfortunate writer had supported himself thus whilst tracing his miserable words.

The steps leading to the gallery beyond the archway were known as “The Little Steps of Mercy,” and to get at the entrance door of the house itself, which was in part built over the passage, it was necessary to go along the gallery, in the side of which it was placed, in an almost invisible gloom, that added not a little to the mystery surrounding the place. Another curious thing about this little by-street was that every house, and there were not many, appeared deserted. Hardly a soul ever passed by day along its dim length, which was always in shadow, except at high noon, when the sunlight forced its way in a line of white light along the forbidding passage. By night no one was ever seen, and, indeed, there were few who would have ventured along the Passage of Pity when the sun went down.

Here, then, I stood at the appointed time, staring at the surly row of houses on either side of me and at the dead wall in my face. Twice I paced up and down the length of the street; but there was no sign of La Marmotte. On the second occasion, however, as I came back, the door of the house on the right-hand side nearest the arch opened slightly, and I heard her voice.

“Enter, monsieur.”

For one little moment I hesitated, and then boldly slipped in. As I did so the door was immediately shut, and I found myself in almost total darkness.

“A moment.” Then I heard the striking of a tinderbox. There was a small, bright glow, then the flame of some burning paper, that threw out the figure of La Marmotte as she lit a candle, and holding it out motioned me up a rickety staircase that faced us.

I had drawn my poniard as I stepped in, so evil-looking was the place, and she caught the gleam of the steel.

“It is needless,” she said coldly; “we are alone.”

“Perhaps, madame,” I replied, taking no notice of her remark, “you had better lead the way; the place is known to you.”

She did as I desired, and we soon found ourselves in a small room, in which there was some broken-down furniture. There was one window, which was closed, and being made entirely of wood all light was shut out except that which the candle gave.

“A strange place,” I said, looking around me.

“When one is as I am, monsieur,” was the bitter answer, “one gets friends with strange places.”

I looked at her more closely than I had done before. Even by the dim light I could see how pale and sunken were her cheeks, and her raven hair was streaked with grey. Her eyes had lost the brazen fire that had shone in them once. Wretched and miserable indeed she looked. But this was not the La Marmotte of the past but another woman.

She put the candle down and turned to me.

“Monsieur, I have asked you to come here because we can be alone here and uninterrupted, and that which I have to say to you concerns the life, perhaps, of Mademoiselle de Paradis. Monsieur, you may not believe me, but from that dreadful night at Le Jaquemart I have become a changed woman. I have learned, monsieur, how to pray, and, my God! the past the past!” And she put her hands to her face and shuddered.

“Madame, there is always a future.”

“But never for a woman! Oh, Monsieur d’Orrain for I know your name now you know this as well as I.”

I made no answer. What could I say? And she went on:

“Listen! After that night I brought him Trotto back to Paris as soon as he was able to move. He was badly hurt, but not so badly as we thought; and he lives for revenge. Your brother the Vidame is in a house in the Rue des Lavandières, into which he has recently moved. There I brought Trotto. Here I found Malsain and some others; and, believing me to be what I was before, they spoke freely before me. For you, monsieur, I warn you to fear the bravo’s knife; they will not face you openly.”

“I will try and take care of myself. But what is it that concerns mademoiselle?”

“This much I know, monsieur: the Vidame wants her for himself, or rather her wealth. The plan he has conceived is as follows: the edict against the heretics is to be revived suddenly, and mademoiselle is to be accused. And you know what this means, with Dom Antoine de Mouchy as judge.”

“But how will this gain the Vidame his wish?”

“To explain that, monsieur, is one of the reasons I have brought you here.” And moving towards the window she opened it cautiously. As she did so there appeared, about three feet or more away, the grey and mottled surface of a blank wall.

“Look!” she said.

I looked out of the window. The walls of the two houses stood about three feet apart. Below me was a deep, narrow space, shut in on all sides except from the top. In the opposite wall was a window partly open, below which ran a narrow ledge. This window faced the one I was standing at, but was placed about a yard or so higher, so that anyone standing there could look into the room in which we were. All this I took in, and then turned to La Marmotte.

“Monsieur,” she said, “that house is where Antoine de Mouchy lives, and where, within an hour’s time, he is to meet the Vidame and some others to discuss their plan. If you would learn it you must learn it from there.” And she pointed to the window above me.

I was about to speak, but she stopped me.

“Listen! I know that house from garret to cellar, for I lived there once. That window leads to an empty room. A door to the right leads into De Mouchy’s study, which looks over the Rue de la Harpe, and standing at that door you can hear every word that passes within. Will you risk it?”

“The getting there is possible, but it is the retreat that I am doubtful of.”

“I have provided for that.” And opening a box that lay near her she pulled out a short coil of stout rope with an iron hook fixed at each end.

“Fasten one hook to the window there, and throw me the rope. I will fasten the other here, and you will have a passage back. I will wait here for you.”

I glanced out of the window again. On the left was the Passage of Pity with its dreary, deserted houses, on the right, above me, was a glimpse of sky. Now and again we heard the cooing of pigeons and the flutter of their wings amongst the eaves, but except for this there was no sound, and we were perfectly unobserved.

Removing my boots and discarding my sword I climbed out of the window, resting my feet on the ledge beneath it. Cautiously rising to a standing position I found I could see clearly into the room opposite. It was unoccupied, but, so far from being empty, was filled with books and piles of documents. It looked, indeed, as if M. de Mouchy’s study had overrun itself into this room. I had, however, made up my mind to take the risk of being present at this meeting whatever the cost might be, and so after another and careful look began the attempt. Between the opposite window and myself was a gap of a little over three feet, so that it was impossible to reach there. Thanks, however, to the forethought of La Marmotte I was enabled to overcome this difficulty, and after a couple of tries, during which the noise made was such as would have certainly aroused attention had anyone been at hand, I succeeded in fixing one of the iron hooks attached to the rope to the ledge of the window. Then, after a strain to test the rope, I let myself swing across the chasm, and found foothold on the opposite ledge. Once there matters were easy, and in a trice I had passed through the window.