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Other People's Money by Émile Gaboriau
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by Emile Gaboriau



There is not, perhaps, in all Paris, a quieter street than the Rue
St. Gilles in the Marais, within a step of the Place Royale. No
carriages there; never a crowd. Hardly is the silence broken by
the regulation drums of the Minims Barracks near by, by the chimes
of the Church of St. Louis, or by the joyous clamors of the pupils
of the Massin School during the hours of recreation.

At night, long before ten o'clock, and when the Boulevard
Beaumarchais is still full of life, activity, and noise, every thing
begins to close. One by one the lights go out, and the great windows
with diminutive panes become dark. And if, after midnight, some
belated citizen passes on his way home, he quickens his step, feeling
lonely and uneasy, and apprehensive of the reproaches of his
concierge, who is likely to ask him whence he may be coming at so
late an hour.

In such a street, every one knows each other: houses have no mystery;
families, no secrets,--a small town, where idle curiosity has always
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