had not passed in the morning, and he did not come by at such regular
hours as the clerks who served Madame Crochard instead of a clock;
moreover, excepting on the first occasion, when his look had given the
old mother a sense of alarm, his eyes had never once dwelt on the
weird picture of these two female gnomes. With the exception of two
carriage-gates and a dark ironmonger's shop, there were in the Rue du
Tourniquet only barred windows, giving light to the staircases of the
neighboring houses; thus the stranger's lack of curiosity was not to
be accounted for by the presence of dangerous rivals; and Madame
Crochard was greatly piqued to see her "Black Gentleman" always lost
in thought, his eyes fixed on the ground, or straight before him, as
though he hoped to read the future in the fog of the Rue du
Tourniquet. However, one morning, about the middle of September,
Caroline Crochard's roguish face stood out so brightly against the
dark background of the room, looking so fresh among the belated
flowers and faded leaves that twined round the window-bars, the daily
scene was gay with such contrasts of light and shade, of pink and
white blending with the light material on which the pretty needlewoman
was working, and with the red and brown hues of the chairs, that the
stranger gazed very attentively at the effects of this living picture.
In point of fact, the old woman, provoked by her "Black Gentleman's"
indifference, had made such a clatter with her bobbins that the gloomy
and pensive passer-by was perhaps prompted to look up by the unusual
noise.

The stranger merely exchanged glances with Caroline, swift indeed, but
enough to effect a certain contact between their souls, and both were
aware that they would think of each other. When the stranger came by
again, at four in the afternoon, Caroline recognized the sound of his
step on the echoing pavement; they looked steadily at each other, and