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‘But who the deuce is he following?’
‘Some fine, flowery bonneted wench! He’s in love.’
‘But,’ observed Bossuet, ‘I don’t see any wench nor any
flowery bonnet in the street. There’s not a woman round.’
Courfeyrac took a survey, and exclaimed:—
‘He’s following a man!’
A man, in fact, wearing a gray cap, and whose gray beard
could be distinguished, although they only saw his back,
was walking along about twenty paces in advance of Mar-
ius.
This man was dressed in a great-coat which was perfectly
new and too large for him, and in a frightful pair of trousers
all hanging in rags and black with mud.
Bossuet burst out laughing.
‘Who is that man?’
‘He?’ retorted Courfeyrac, ‘he’s a poet. Poets are very
fond of wearing the trousers of dealers in rabbit skins and
the overcoats of peers of France.’
‘Let’s see where Marius will go,’ said Bossuet; ‘let’s see
where the man is going, let’s follow them, hey?’
‘Bossuet!’ exclaimed Courfeyrac, ‘eagle of Meaux! You
are a prodigious brute. Follow a man who is following an-
other man, indeed!’
They retraced their steps.
Marius had, in fact, seen Jondrette passing along the Rue
Mouffetard, and was spying on his proceedings.
Jondrette walked straight ahead, without a suspicion
that he was already held by a glance.
He quitted the Rue Mouffetard, and Marius saw him en-