Between three and four years had elapsed since Lomaque had exercised, for the last time, his official functions under the Reign of Terror.  His shoulders had contracted an extra stoop, and his hair had all fallen off, except at the sides and back of his head.  In some other respects, however, advancing age seemed to have improved rather than deteriorated him in personal appearance.  His complexion looked healthier, his expression cheerfuller, his eyes brighter than they had ever been of late years.  He walked, too, with a brisker step than the step of old times in the police office; and his dress, although it certainly did not look like the costume of a man in affluent circumstances, was cleaner and far more nearly worn than ever it had been in the past days of his political employment at Paris.

He sat down alone in the inn parlor, and occupied the time, while his hostess had gone to fetch the half-bottle of wine that he ordered, in examining a dirty old card which he extricated from a mass of papers in his pocket-book, and which bore, written on it, these lines: 

“When the troubles are over, do not forget those who remember you with eternal gratitude.  Stop at the first post-station beyond Meaux, on the high-road to Paris, and ask at the inn for Citizen Maurice, whenever you wish to see us or to hear of us again.”

“Pray,” inquired Lomaque, putting the card in his pocket when the Widow Duval brought in the wine, “can you inform me whether a person named Maurice lives anywhere in this neighborhood?”

“Can I inform you?” repeated the voluble widow.  “Of course I can!  Citizen Maurice, and the citoyenne, his amiable sister—­who is not to be passed over because you don’t mention her, my honest man—­lives within ten minutes’ walk of my house.  A charming cottage, in a charming situation, inhabited by two charming people—­so quiet, so retiring, such excellent pay.  I supply them with everything—­fowls, eggs, bread, butter, vegetables (not that they eat much of anything), wine (which they don’t drink half enough of to do them good); in short, I victual the dear little hermitage, and love the two amiable recluses with all my heart.  Ah! they have had their troubles, poor people, the sister especially, though they never talk about them.  When they first came to live in our neighborhood—­”

“I beg pardon, citoyenne, but if you would only be so kind as to direct me—­”

“Which is three—­no, four—­no, three years and a half ago—­in short, just after the time when that Satan of a man, Robespierre, had his head cut off (and serve him right!), I said to my husband (who was on his last legs then, poor man!) ’She’ll die’—­meaning the lady.  She didn’t though.  My fowls, eggs, bread, butter, vegetables, and wine carried her through—­always in combination with the anxious care of Citizen Maurice.  Yes, yes! let us be tenderly conscientious in giving credit where credit is due; let us never forget that the citizen Maurice contributed something to the cure of the interesting invalid, as well as the victuals and drink from the Piebald Horse.  There she is now, the prettiest little woman in the prettiest little cottage—­”