d black bonnet walking along
by the wall?"

"Yes, yes! I see her safe enough."

"Well, then, go slowly along, and keep up with her. Should she go to the
coach-stand I had you from, pull up; and when she has got into a
_fiacre_, follow it wherever it goes."

"All right,--I understand! Now this is what I call a good joke!"

M. d'Harville had conjectured rightly. Madame d'Harville repaired
directly to the coach-stand, and beckoning a _fiacre_ off the stand,
instantly got in, and drove off, closely followed by the vehicle
containing her husband.

They had proceeded but a very short distance, when the coachman took the
road to the church of St. Thomas Aquinas, and, to the surprise of M.
d'Harville, pulled up directly in front.

"What is this for? What are you about?"

"Why, master, the lady you told me to follow has just alighted here, and
a smart, tidy leg and foot of her own she has got. Her dress somehow
caught; so, you see, I couldn't help having a peep, nohow. This is
downright good fun though, this is!"

A thousand varied thoughts agitated M. d'Harville. One minute he fancied
that his wife, fearing pursuit, had taken this step to escape detection;
then hope whispered that the letter which had given him so much
uneasiness, might after all be only an infamous calumny; for if guilty,
what could be gained by this false assumption of piety? Would it not be
a species of sacrilegious mockery? At this suggestion a bright ray of
hope shot across the troubled mind of M. d'Harville, arising from the
striking contrast between Clemence's present occupation and the crime
alleged as her motive for quitting her home. Alas! this consolatory
illusion was speedily destroyed. Leaning in at the open window the
coachman observed:

"I say, master, that nice little woman you are after has got back into
her coach."

"Then follow quickly."

"I'm off! Now this is what I call downright good fun. Capital; hang me
if it ain't!"

The vehicle reached the Quais, the Hotel de Ville, the Rue St. Avoye,
and, at last, Rue du Temple.

"I say," said the coachman, turning round to speak to M. d'Harville from
his seat, "master, just look. My mate, there, has stopped at No. 17; we
are about at 13. Shall I stop here or go on to 17?"

"Stop here."

"I say,--look'ee,--you'll lose your pretty lady. She has gone into the
alley leading to No. 17."

"Open the door."

"I'm coming, sir."

And quickly following the steps of his wife, M. d'Harvi