the concierge; “but tell me, how is Papa Cottard?”
The old woman shook her head and pointed to the curtained bed in the lodge.
“Père Cottard!” he cried cheerily, “how goes the wound to-day?”
He walked over to the bed and drew the curtains. An old man was lying among the tumbled sheets.
“Better?” smiled Trent.
“Better,” repeated the man wearily; and, after a pause; “have you any news, Monsieur Jack?”
“I haven’t been out to-day. I will bring you any rumor I may hear, though goodness knows I’ve got enough of rumors,” he muttered to himself. Then aloud: “Cheer up; you’re looking better.”
“And the sortie?”
“Oh, the sortie, that’s for this week. General Trochu sent orders last night.”
“It will be terrible.”
“It will be sickening,” thought Trent as he went out into the street and turned the corner toward the rue de Seine; slaughter, slaughter, phew! “I’m glad I’m not going.”
The street was almost deserted. A few women muffled in tattered military capes crept along the frozen pavement, and a wretchedly clad gamin hovered over the sewer hole on the corner of the Boulevard. A rope around his waist held his rags together. From the rope hung a rat, still warm and bleeding.
“There’s another in there,” he yelled at Trent; “I hit him but he got away.”
Trent crossed the street and asked: “How much?”
“Two francs for a quarter of a fat one;
