At last, having struck sharply to his left and ascended a short
flight of stairs, he found himself in front of the guichet--a
narrow wooden box, wherein the clerk in charge of the prison
registers sat nominally at the disposal of the citizens of this
free republic.
But to Armand's almost overwhelming chagrin he found the place
entirely deserted. The guichet was closed down; there was not a
soul in sight. The disappointment was doubly keen, coming as it
did in the wake of hope that had refused to be gainsaid. Armand
himself did not realise how sanguine he had been until he
discovered that he must wait and wait again--wait for hours, all
day mayhap, before he could get definite news of Jeanne.
He wandered aimlessly in the vicinity of that silent, deserted,
cruel spot, where a closed trapdoor seemed to shut off all his
hopes of a speedy sight of Jeanne. He inquired of the first
sentinels whom he came across at what hour the clerk of the
registers would be back at his post; the soldiers shrugged their
shoulders and could give no information. Then began Armand's
aimless wanderings round La Tournelle, his fruitless inquiries,
his wild, excited search for the hide-bound official who was
keeping from him the knowledge of Jeanne.
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