The iron hand gripped his arm to enjoin eternal secrecy.

At three in the morning des Lupeaulx and Finot found the elegant
Rastignac on the same spot, leaning against the column where the
terrible mask had left him. Rastignac had confessed to himself; he had
been at once priest and pentient, culprit and judge. He allowed
himself to be led away to breakfast, and reached home perfectly tipsy,
but taciturn.



The Rue de Langlade and the adjacent streets are a blot on the Palais
Royal and the Rue de Rivoli. This portion of one of the handsomest
quarters of Paris will long retain the stain of foulness left by the
hillocks formed of the middens of old Paris, on which mills formerly
stood. These narrow streets, dark and muddy, where such industries are
carried on as care little for appearances wear at night an aspect of
mystery full of contrasts. On coming from the well-lighted regions of
the Rue Saint-Honore, the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, and the Rue de
Richelieu, where the crowd is constantly pushing, where glitter the
masterpieces of industry, fashion, and art, every man to whom Paris by
night is unknown would feel a sense of dread and melancholy, on
finding himself in the labyrinth of little streets which lie round
that blaze of light reflected even from the sky. Dense blackness is
here, instead of floods of gaslight; a dim oil-lamp here and there
sheds its doubtful and smoky gleam, and many blind alleys are not
lighted at all. Foot passengers are few, and walk fast. The shops are
shut, the few that are open are of a squalid kind; a dirty, unlighted
wineshop, or a seller of underclothing and eau-de-Cologne. An
unwholesome chill lays a clammy cloak over your shoulders. Few