of men and horses. In a narrow street that winds round the old church of
St. Eustache, a man, enveloped in his cloak, slowly walked up and down,
constantly watching for the appearance of some one. He often seated
himself upon one of the posts of the church, sheltering himself from the
falling snow under one of the statues of saints which jutted out from the
roof of the building, stretching over the narrow path like birds of prey,
which, about to make a stoop, have folded their wings. Often, too, the
old man, opening his cloak, beat his arms against his breast to warm
himself, or blew upon his fingers, ill protected from the cold by a pair
of buff gloves reaching nearly to the elbow. At last he saw a slight
shadow gliding along the wall.

"Ah, Santa Maria! what villainous countries are these of the North!"
said a woman's voice, trembling. "Ah, the duchy of Mantua! would I were
back there again, Grandchamp!"

"Pshaw! don't speak so loud," said the old domestic, abruptly. "The
walls of Paris have Cardinalist ears, and more especially the walls of
the churches. Has your mistress entered? My master awaits her at the
door."

"Yes, yes; she has gone in."

"Be silent," said Grandchamp. "The sound of the clock is cracked.
That's a bad sign."

"That clock has sounded the hour of a rendezvous."

"For me, it sounds like a passing-bell. But be silent, Laure; here are
three cloaks passing."