eared to be composed only of passers-by, so that the song was
not finished, nor the collection received. The crowd dispersed. A great
many men left the circle, singly, or two and two, turning toward each
other with an imperceptible gesture of the hand, some by the Rue de
Valois, some by the Cour des Fontaines, some by the Palais Royal itself,
thus surrounding the Rue des Bons Enfants, which seemed to be the center
of the rendezvous. In consequence of this maneuver, the intention of
which it is easy to understand, there only remained before the singer
ten or twelve women, some children, and a good bourgeois of about forty
years old, who, seeing that the collection was about to begin again,
quitted his place with an air of profound contempt for all these new
songs, and humming an old pastoral which he placed infinitely above
them. It seemed to him that several men as he passed them made him
signs; but as he did not belong to any secret society or any masonic
lodge, he went on, singing his favorite--

"Then let me go
And let me play
Beneath the hazel-tree,"

and after having followed the Rue St. Honore to the Barriere des Deux
Sergents, turned the corner and disappeared. Almost at the same moment,
the man in the cloak, who had been the first to leave the group,
reappeared, and, accosting the singer--

"My friend," said he, "my wife is ill, and your music will prevent her
sleeping. If you have no particular reason for remaining here, go to the
Place du Palais Royal, and here is a crown to indemnify you."

"Thank you, my lord," replied the singer, measuring the social position
of the giver by his generosity. "I will go directly. Have you any
commissions for the Rue Mouffetard?"

"No."

"Because I would have executed them into the bargain."

The man went away, and as he was at once the center and the cause of the
meeting, all that remained disappeared with him. At this moment the
clock of the Palais Royal struck nine. The young man drew from his
pocket a watch, whose diamond setting contrasted strangely with his
simple costume. He set it exactly, then turned and went into the Rue des
Bons Enfants. On arriving opposite No. 24, he found the coalheaver.

"And the singer?" asked the latter.

"He is gone."

"Good."

"And the postchaise?" asked the man in the cloak.

"It is waiting at the corner of the Rue Baillif."

"Have they taken the precaution of wrapping the wheels and horses' hoofs
in rags?"