He heard the condemnation, the rattle of the tumbril on the ill-paved streets--saw her there with hands clasped together, her eyes-- Great God! he was really going mad! Like a wild creature driven forth he started to run down the stairs, past the concierge, who was just entering his lodge, and who now turned in surly anger to watch this man running away like a lunatic or a fool, out by the front door and into the street.

In a moment he was out of the little square; then like a hunted hare he still ran down the Rue St.
Honore, along its narrow, interminable length.

His hat had fallen from his head, his hair was wild all round his face, the rain weighted the cloak upon his shoulders; but still he ran.
His feet made no noise on the muddy pavement.

He ran on and on, his elbows pressed to his sides, panting, quivering, intent but upon one thing--the goal which he had set himself to reach.
Jeanne was arrested.

He did not know where to look for her, but he did know whither he wanted to go now as swiftly as his legs would carry him.
It was still dark, but Armand St.Just was a born Parisian, and he knew every inch of this quarter, where he and Marguerite had years ago lived.
Down the Rue St.Honore, he had reached the bottom of the interminably long street at last.