aying he had forgotten something at his own house, and would return to
fetch it in three hours. But, instead of a few hours, he left it for
two whole days--why, one does not know, but it may be supposed that he
wanted the time to dig a trench in a sort of vault under the staircase
leading to the cellar in the rue de la Mortellerie. Whatever the
cause, the delay might have been fatal, and did occasion an unforeseen
encounter which nearly betrayed him. But of all the actors in this
scene he alone knew the real danger he incurred, and his coolness never
deserted him for a moment.

The third day, as he walked alongside the handcart on which the chest
was being conveyed, he was accosted at Saint Germain l'Auxerrois by a
creditor who had obtained a writ of execution against him, and at
the imperative sign made by this man the porter stopped. The creditor
attacked Derues violently, reproaching him for his bad faith in language
which was both energetic and uncomplimentary; to which the latter
replied in as conciliatory a manner as he could assume. But it was
impossible to silence the enemy, and an increasing crowd of idlers began
to assemble round them.

"When will you pay me?" demanded the creditor. "I have an execution
against you. What is there in that box? Valuables which you cart away
secretly, in order to laugh at my just claims, as you did two years
ago?"

Derues shuddered all over; he exhausted himself in protestations; but
the other, almost beside himself, continued to shout.

"Oh!" he said, turning to the crowd, "all these tricks and grimaces and
signs of the cross are no good. I must have my money, and as I know what
his promises are worth, I will pay myself! Come, you knave, make haste.
Tell me what there is in that box; open it, or I will fetch the police."

The crowd was divided between the creditor and debtor, and possibly a
free fight would have begun, but the general attention was distracted
by the arrival of another spectator. A voice heard above all the tumult
caused a score of heads to turn, it was the voice of a woman crying:

"The abominable history of Leroi de Valine, condemned to death at the
age of sixteen for having poisoned his entire family!"

Continually crying her wares, the drunken, staggering woman approached
the crowd, and striking out right and left with fists and elbows, forced
her way to Derues.

"Ah! ah!" said she, after looking him well over, "is it you, my gossip
Derues! Have you