a step behind me, and
turning saw it was La Marmotte. She made no sign of recognition,
however, but went straight up to Barou, to whom she handed a small
package, giving him some instructions in a low tone. Taking the hint I
gave a casual glance or so at the things around me, and then strolled
out of the shop. I walked very slowly up the street in the direction
opposite De Lorgnac's house, and I had scarce gone a hundred paces when
La Marmotte caught me up, and asked me somewhat abruptly if I knew of a
place called the Passage of Pity. I replied that I did, and she then
told me to meet her there in an hour's time, and to be sure I was well
armed. For answer I touched the hilt of my sword; and, with a nod to
me, she crossed the street and disappeared up a narrow, winding alley.
I kept on at the leisurely pace I was going at, wondering to myself if
I were walking into a snare or not. But, although caution is a very
good thing, still there are times when one should be prepared to take
risks, and I held this was such an occasion. Having now reached the
head of the Rue Tiquetonne I quickened my pace, and was soon in the
Vallee de Misere. I avoided the bridge, and, crossing the river by a
ferry boat, was soon in the purlieus of the Sorbonne. Every inch of
this locality was familiar to me, and at last I reached the cloisters
of the Mathurins, a few yards from which lay the narrow by-street which
the quaint wit of the Parisian _badaud_ had christened the Passage of
Pity. It was dark and short--so short, indeed, that an active boy,
standing at one end of it, might easily have thrown a stone against the
high wall of a house built athwart the other end of the road,
apparently barring all progress beyond. This was not the case,
however, for the narrow arch, that was to all appearance the entrance
to the house, gave access to a small flight of steps, worn with age,
that led towards a gallery opening upon the Rue de la Harpe.

In the wall towards the right of this arch, about a man's height from
the ground, was a small niche containing a figure of the Virgin, and
beneath was that which, perhaps, had given its name to the street, for
someone had traced in shaky characters upon the wall the words: "_Avez
pitie_!"

Beneath these words, written in blood long since browned with age,
could still be seen the impress of a hand that had been red too, as if
the unfortunate writer had supported himself thus whilst tracing his
mise