"We had decided," rejoined Lecoq, "that the accomplice mounted guard
here. The time seemed long, and, growing impatient, he paced to and
fro--the length of this log of wood--occasionally pausing to listen.
Hearing nothing, he stamped his foot, doubtless exclaiming: 'What the
deuce has happened to him down there!' He had made about thirty turns (I
have counted them), when a sound broke the stillness--the two women were
coming."
On hearing Lecoq's recital, all the conflicting sentiments that are
awakened in a child's mind by a fairy tale--doubt, faith, anxiety,
and hope--filled Father Absinthe's heart. What should he believe? what
should he refuse to believe? He did not know. How was he to separate the
true from the false among all these equally surprising assertions? On
the other hand, the gravity of his companion, which certainly was not
feigned, dismissed all idea of pleasantry.
Finally, curiosity began to torture him. "We had reached the point where
the women made their appearance," said he.
"Yes, indeed," responded Lecoq, "but here all certainty ceases; no more
proofs, only suppositions. Still, I have every reason to believe that
our fugitives left the drinking den before the beginning of the fight,
before the cries that attracted our attention. Who were they? I can only
conjecture. I suspect, however, that they were not equals in rank. I am
inclined to think that one was the mistress, the other her servant."
"That is proved," ventured the old man, "by the great difference in
their feet and in their shoes.
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