d that the register will not be quite ready for your
inspection."

"Half a livre!" exclaimed Armand, striving to play his part to the end.
"How can a poor devil of a labourer have half a livre to give away?"

"Well! a few sous will do in that case; a few sous are always welcome
these hard times."

Armand took the hint, and as the crowd had drifted away momentarily to
a further portion of the corridor, he contrived to press a few copper
coins into the hand of the obliging soldier.

Of course, he knew his way to La Tournelle, and he would have covered
the distance that separated him from the guichet there with steps flying
like the wind, but, commending himself for his own prudence, he walked
as slowly as he could along the interminable corridor, past the several
minor courts of justice, and skirting the courtyard where the male
prisoners took their exercise.

At last, having struck sharply to his left and ascended a short flight
of stairs, he found himself in front of the guichet--a narrow wooden
box, wherein the clerk in charge of the prison registers sat nominally
at the disposal of the citizens of this free republic.

But to Armand's almost overwhelming chagrin he found the place entirely
deserted. The guichet was closed down; there was not a soul in sight.
The disappointment was doubly keen, coming as it did in the wake of
hope that had refused to be gainsaid. Armand himself did not realise
how sanguine he had been until he discovered that he must wait and wait
again--wait for hours, all day mayhap, before he could get definite news
of Jeanne.

He wandered aimlessly in the vicinity of that silent, deserted, cruel
spot, where a closed trapdoor seemed to shut off all his hopes of a
speedy sight of Jeanne. He inquired of the first sentinels whom he came
across at what hour the clerk of the registers would be back at
his post; the soldiers shrugged their shoulders and could give no
information. Then began Armand's aimless wanderings round La Tournelle,
his fruitless inquiries, his wild, excited search for the hide-bound
official who was keeping from him the knowledge of Jeanne.

He went back to his sentinel well-wisher by the women's courtyard, but
found neither consolation nor encouragement there.

"It is not the hour--quoi?" the soldier remarked with laconic
philosophy.

It apparently was not the hour when the prison registers were placed at
the disposal of the public. After much fruitless inquiry, Armand a