CHAPTER XXXIII
HOW A DREADFUL CRIME PLUNGES PARIS INTO A STATE OF TERROR
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HE city was asleep. Their footsteps rang loudly on the deserted pavement. Having reached the corner of the Rue Feutrier, half-way up Montmartre, the little company halted before the dwelling of the beautiful angel. Arcade was talking about the Thrones and Dominations with Zita, who, her finger on the bell, could not make up her mind to ring. Prince Istar was tracing the mechanism of a new sort of bomb on the pavement with the end of his stick, and bellowed so loudly that he woke the sleeping citizens and stirred into activity the amatory passions of the neighbouring Pasiphaës. Theophile was singing the barcarole from the second act of Aline, Queen of Golconda at the top of his voice. Maurice, his arm in a sling, was fencing left-handed with the Japanese, striking sparks from the pavement, and crying “A hit! a hit!” in a piercing voice.
Meanwhile Inspector Grolle at the corner of the next street was dreaming. He had the bearing
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