The man, who was by trade a
_trieur_ or chief _chiffonnier_, seeing Plon's head appear,
turned round and addressed himself to him.
"Fort is a traitor, he has denounced others. They will be here presently
searching for arms. It is short work I can tell you."
"And my--my _locataire_ is shot!" murmured Plon, panic-struck. But the
man whose mission was ended, turned round without another word and went
out into the lurid darkness.
The landlord made a trembling effort to stagger across the passage, and
to pluck at Marie's gown. When he spoke, his voice quavered with fright.
"Come, come, Madame Didier, go upstairs, and--and--cry there like a good
woman. Here it isn't safe. Besides, if they know who you are, I might be
compromised. Poor Jean! Heavens!--"
For a volley of rifle shot poured down the street, a rush of feet
followed; and Plon fled precipitously to his den, double-bolted his
door, and rolled his mattress round him for protection. Marie Didier
slowly turned her head, and, as if recognising the wisdom of his advice,
felt her way along the wall and groped up the dark staircase. No one had
lit the small oil lamp on the _premier_, but light from burning houses
flashed in at windows; a child had been killed by the fragment of a
shell, and the mother was loudly wailing; some were peering out of
their doorways; they stared at Marie, who crept up like a ghost.
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