A sharp laugh followed, and the group of men melted among the crowd like a knot of frightened field-rats whisking into their holes by the roadside.  Rastignac alone went no further than was necessary, just to avoid making any show of shunning Lucien’s flashing eye.  He could thus note two phases of distress equally deep though unconfessed; first, the hapless Torpille, stricken as by a lightning stroke, and then the inscrutable mask, the only one of the group who had remained.  Esther murmured a word in Lucien’s ear just as her knees gave way, and Lucien, supporting her, led her away.

Rastignac watched the pretty pair, lost in meditation.

“How did she get her name of La Torpille?” asked a gloomy voice that struck to his vitals, for it was no longer disguised.

“He again—­he has made his escape!” muttered Rastignac to himself.

“Be silent or I murder you,” replied the mask, changing his voice.  “I am satisfied with you, you have kept your word, and there is more than one arm ready to serve you.  Henceforth be as silent as the grave; but, before that, answer my question.”

“Well, the girl is such a witch that she could have magnetized the Emperor Napoleon; she could magnetize a man more difficult to influence—­you yourself,” replied Rastignac, and he turned to go.

“One moment,” said the mask; “I will prove to you that you have never seen me anywhere.”

The speaker took his mask off; for a moment Rastignac hesitated, recognizing nothing of the hideous being he had known formerly at Madame Vauquer’s.

“The devil has enabled you to change in every particular, excepting your eyes, which it is impossible to forget,” said he.

The iron hand gripped his arm to enjoin eternal secrecy.

At three in the morning des Lupeaulx and Finot found the elegant Rastignac on the same spot, leaning against the column where the terrible mask had left him.  Rastignac had confessed to himself; he had been at once priest and pentient, culprit and judge.  He allowed himself to be led away to breakfast, and reached home perfectly tipsy, but taciturn.

The Rue de Langlade and the adjacent streets are a blot on the Palais Royal and the Rue de Rivoli.  This portion of one of the handsomest quarters of Paris will long retain the stain of foulness left by the hillocks formed of the middens of old Paris, on which mills formerly stood.  These narrow streets, dark and muddy, where such industries are carried on as care little for appearances wear at night an aspect of mystery full of contrasts.  On coming from the well-lighted regions of the Rue Saint-Honore, the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, and the Rue de Richelieu, where the crowd is constantly pushing, where glitter the masterpieces of industry, fashion, and art, every man to whom Paris by night is unknown would feel a sense of dread and melancholy, on finding himself in the labyrinth of little streets which lie round