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.
He went back to his sentinel well-wisher by the women's courtyard, but found neither consolation nor encouragement there.
"It is not the hour--quoi ?" the soldier remarked with laconic philosophy.
It apparently was not the hour when the prison registers were placed at the disposal of the public.

After much fruitless inquiry, Armand at last was informed by a bon bourgeois, who was wandering about the house of Justice and who seemed to know its multifarious rules, that the prison registers all over Paris could only be consulted by the public between the hours of six and seven in the evening.
There was nothing for it but to wait.

Armand, whose temples were throbbing, who was footsore, hungry, and wretched, could gain nothing by continuing his aimless wanderings through the labyrinthine building.
For close upon another hour he stood with his face glued against the ironwork which separated him from the female prisoners' courtyard.