lead one.

A scarecrow he was, that old Public Letter-Writer, more like a great,
gaunt bird than a human being, with those spectacles of his, and his
long, very sparse and very lanky fringe of a beard which fell from his
cheeks and chin and down his chest for all the world like a crumpled
grey bib. He was wrapped from head to foot in a caped coat which had
once been green in colour, but was now of many hues not usually seen in
rainbows. He wore his coat all buttoned down the front, like a dressing-
gown, and below the hem there peeped out a pair of very large feet
encased in boots which had never been a pair. He sat upon a rickety,
straw-bottomed chair under an improvised awning which was made up of
four poles and a bit of sacking. He had a table in front of him--a table
partially and very insecurely propped up by a bundle of old papers and
books, since no two of its four legs were completely whole--and on the
table there was a neckless bottle half-filled with ink, a few sheets of
paper and a couple of quill pens.

The young girl's hesitation had indeed not lasted more than a few
seconds.

Furtively, like a young creature terrified of lurking enemies, she once
more glanced to right and left of her and down the two streets and the
river bank, for Paris was full of spies these days--human bloodhounds
ready for a few sous to sell their fellow-creatures' lives. It was
middle morning now, and a few passers-by were hurrying along wrapped to
the nose in mufflers, for the weather was bitterly cold.

Agnes waited until there was no one in sight, then she leaned forward
over the table and whispered under her breath: