Agnes turned to go. The last she saw of him, as she went up the rue
Dauphine, was one broad shoulder still bending over the table, and clad
in the shabby, caped coat all covered with snow like an old Santa Claus.

II

It was half-an-hour before noon, and citizen-deputy Heriot was preparing
to go out to the small tavern round the corner where he habitually took
his dejeuner. Citizen Rondeau, who for the consideration of ten sous a
day looked after Heriot's paltry creature-comforts, was busy tidying up
the squalid apartment which the latter occupied on the top floor of a
lodging-house in the Rue Cocatrice. This apartment consisted of three
rooms leading out of one another; firstly there was a dark and narrow
antichambre wherein slept the aforesaid citizen-servant; then came a
sitting-room sparsely furnished with a few chairs, a centre table and an
iron stove, and finally there was the bedroom wherein the most
conspicuous object was a large oak chest clamped with wide iron hinges
and a massive writing-desk; the bed and a very primitive washstand were
in an alcove at the farther end of the room and partially hidden by a
tapestry curtain.

At exactly half-past seven that morning there came a peremptory knock at
the door of the antichambre, and as Rondeau was busy in the bedroom,
Heriot went himself to see who his unexpected visitor might be. On the
landing outside stood an extraordinary-looking individual--more like a
tall and animated scarecrow than a man--who in a tremulous voice asked
if he might speak with the citizen Heriot.

"That is my name," said the deputy gruffly, "what do you want?"