ied the coadjutor.

"Well, the man whom I offer you is a general syndic."

"And what do you know of him?"

"Nothing, my lord, except that he is tormented with remorse."

"What makes you think so?"

"On the twenty-eighth of every month he makes me say a mass for the
repose of the soul of one who died a violent death; yesterday I said
this mass again."

"And his name?"

"Maillard; but I do not think it is his right one."

"And think you that we should find him at this hour at his post?"

"Certainly."

"Let us go and see your beggar, sir, and if he is such as you describe
him, you are right--it will be you who have discovered the true
treasure."

Gondy dressed himself as an officer, put on a felt cap with a red
feather, hung on a long sword, buckled spurs to his boots, wrapped
himself in an ample cloak and followed the curate.

The coadjutor and his companion passed through all the streets lying
between the archbishopric and the St. Eustache Church, watching
carefully to ascertain the popular feeling. The people were in an
excited mood, but, like a swarm of frightened bees, seemed not to know
at what point to concentrate; and it was very evident that if leaders of
the people were not provided all this agitation would pass off in idle
buzzing.

On arriving at the Rue des Prouvaires, the curate pointed toward the
square before the church.

"Stop!" he said, "there he is at his post."

Gondy looked at the spot indicated and perceived a beggar seated in a
chair and leaning against one of the moldings; a little basin was near
him and he held a holy water brush in his hand.

"Is it by permission that he remains there?" asked Gondy.

"No, my lord; these places are bought. I believe this man paid his
predecessor a hundred pistoles for his."

"The rascal is rich, then?"

"Some of those men sometimes die worth twenty thousand and twenty-five
and thirty thousand francs and sometimes more."

"Hum!" said Gondy, laughing; "I was not aware my alms were so well
invested."

In the meantime they were advancing toward the square, and the moment
the coadjutor and the curate put their feet on the first church step the
mendicant arose and proffered his brush.

He was a man between sixty-six and sixty-eight years of age, little,
rather stout, with gray hair and light eyes. His countenance denoted the
struggle between two opposite principles--a wicked nature, subdued by
determination, perhaps by repentance.

He star