suddenly advance into the middle of the cafe where Alphonse was
always surrounded by his friends and admirers, and say loudly and
distinctly so that all should hear it:

"Monsieur Alphonse, you are charged with forgery."

It was raining in Paris. The day had been foggy, raw, and cold;
and well on in the afternoon it had begun to rain. It was not a
downpour--the water did not fall from the clouds in regular
drops--but the clouds themselves had, as it were, laid themselves
down in the streets of Paris and there slowly condensed into water.

No matter how people might seek to shelter themselves, they got
wet on all sides. The moisture slid down the back of your neck,
laid itself like a wet towel about your knees, penetrated into
your boots and far up your trousers.

A few sanguine ladies were standing in the portes cocheres, with
their skirts tucked up, expecting it to clear; others waited by
the hour in the omnibus stations. But most of the stronger sex
hurried along under their umbrellas; only a few had been sensible
enough to give up the battle, and had turned up their collars,
stuck their umbrellas under their arms, and their hands in their
pockets.

Although it was early in the autumn it was already dusk at five
o'clock. A few gas-jets lighted in the narrowest streets, and in a
shop here and there strove to shine out in the thick wet air.

People swarmed as usual in the streets, jostled one another off