Through the Wall | Page 3

the dog
away, leaving the detective all unconscious that he had reached a
critical moment in his destiny.
How the course of events would have been changed had Paul Coquenil
remained outside Notre-Dame on this occasion it is impossible to know;
the fact is he did not remain outside, but, growing impatient at
Bonneton's delay, he pushed open the double swinging doors, with their
coverings of leather and red velvet, and entered the sanctuary. And
immediately he saw the girl.
She was in the shadows near a statue of the Virgin before which
candles were burning. On the table were rosaries and talismans and
candles of different lengths that it was evidently the girl's business to
sell. In front of the Virgin's shrine was a prie dieu at which a woman
was kneeling, but she presently rose and went out, and the girl sat there
alone. She was looking down at a piece of embroidery, and Coquenil
noticed her shapely white hands and the mass of red golden hair coiled

above her neck. When she lifted her eyes he saw that they were dark
and beautiful, though tinged with sadness. He was surprised to find this
lovely young woman selling candles here in Notre-Dame Church.
And suddenly he was more surprised, for as the girl glanced up she met
his gaze fixed on her, and immediately there came into her face a look
so strange, so glad, and yet so frightened that Coquenil went to her
quickly with reassuring smile. He was sure he had never seen her
before, yet he realized that somehow she was equally sure that she
knew him.
What followed was seen by only one person, that is, the sacristan's wife,
a big, hard-faced woman with a faint mustache and a wart on her chin,
who sat by the great column near the door dispensing holy water out of
a cracked saucer and whining for pennies. Nothing escaped the
hawklike eyes of Mother Bonneton, and now, with growing curiosity,
she watched the scene between Coquenil and the candle seller. What
interest could a great detective have in this girl, Alice, whom she and
her husband had taken in as a half-charity boarder? Such airs as she
gave herself! What was she saying now? Why should he look at her
like that? The baggage!
"Holy saints, how she talks!" grumbled the sacristan's wife. "And see
the eyes she makes! And how he listens! The man must be crazy to
waste his time on her! Now he asks a question and she talks again with
that queer, far-away look. He frowns and clinches his hands, and--upon
my soul he seems afraid of her! He says something and starts to come
away. Ah, now he turns and stares at her as if he had seen a ghost!
_Mon Dieu, quelle folie!_"
This whole incident occupied scarcely five minutes, yet it wrought an
extraordinary change in Coquenil. All his buoyancy was gone, and he
looked worn, almost haggard, as he walked to the church door with
hard-shut teeth and face set in an ominous frown.
"There's some devil's work in this," he muttered, and as his eyes caught
the fires of the lurid sky he thought of Papa Tignol's words.

"What is it?" asked the sacristan, approaching timidly.
The detective faced him sharply. "Who is the girl in there? Where did
she come from? How did she get here? Why does she--" He stopped
abruptly, and, pressing the fingers of his two hands against his forehead,
he stroked the brows over his closed eyes as if he were combing away
error. "No, no!" he changed, "don't tell me yet. I must be alone; I must
think. Come to me at nine to-night."
"I--I'll try to come," said Bonneton, with visions of an objecting wife.
"You must come," insisted the detective. "Remember, nine o'clock,"
and he started to go.
"Yes, yes, quite so," murmured the sacristan, following him. "But, M.
Paul--er--which day do you sail?"
Coquenil turned and snapped out angrily: "I may not sail at all."
"But the--the position in Rio Janeiro?"
"A thousand thunders! Don't talk to me!" cried the other, and there was
such black rage in his look that Bonneton cowered away, clasping and
unclasping his hands and murmuring meekly: "Ah, yes, exactly."
* * * * *
So much for the humble influence that turned Paul Coquenil toward an
unbelievable decision and led him ultimately into the most desperate
struggle of his long and exciting career. A day of sinister portent this
must have been, for scarcely had Coquenil left Notre-Dame when
another scene was enacted there that should have been happy, but that,
alas! showed only a rough and devious way stretching before two
lovers. And again it was the girl who made trouble, this seller of