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Updated: September 25, 2025
Do not be out of heart. In the first place, the Prefet will not hold his appointment much longer; the times are big with revolution, and revolutions make good fishing for us." A peculiar whistle was just then heard in the street. "That is Contenson," said Peyrade, who put a light in the window, "and he has something to say that concerns me."
"All right, hand them over," said Contenson, holding out his hand. "Noting for noting! Le us see de man, and you get de money; you might sell to me many address at dat price." Contenson began to laugh. "To be sure, you have a right to think that of me," said he, with an air of blaming himself. "The more rascally our business is, the more honesty is necessary.
"They are right," said the sham messenger to Contenson, who was waiting for him in the street. "The man you describe is in the house; but he is not a Spaniard, and I will burn my hand off if there is not a bird for our net under that priest's gown." "He is no more a priest than he is a Spaniard," said Contenson. "I am sure of that," said the detective. "Oh, if only we were right!" said Contenson.
"For what purpose have you disguised yourself, taken rooms at the Mirabeau, and dressed Contenson as a black servant?" asked the peace-officer. "Monsieur le Prefet may do what he chooses with me, but I owe no account of my actions to any one but my chief," said Peyrade with dignity.
Contenson would tell him for five hundred francs what Louchard wanted to see a thousand crowns for. The rapid calculation plainly proves that if the man's heart was in possession of love, his head was still that of the lynx stock-jobber.
The Ministry put their faith in Corentin; they enjoined him to keep an eye on Peyrade, which amused Louis XVIII. Corentin and Peyrade were then masters of the position. Contenson, long attached to Peyrade, was still at his service.
Contenson had brought all his experience into play in his search for Lydie, and hoped to discover in what house she was hidden; but as the days went by, the impossibility, absolutely demonstrated, of tracing the slightest clue, added, hour by hour, to Peyrade's despair. The old spy had a sort of guard about him of twelve or fifteen of the most experienced detectives.
Paccard had meanwhile handed the ices to the company in his absence. The mulatto had hardly reached the door when one of the police constables who had kept watch in the Rue des Moineaux called up the stairs: "Number twenty-seven." "What's up?" replied Contenson, flying down again. "Tell Papa that his daughter has come home; but, good God! in what a state. Tell him to come at once; she is dying."
Peyrade did wrong when he mixed himself up with private concerns; we have no business to meddle with any but public cases. "But come what may, I swear," said he with a voice, an emphasis, a look that struck horror into Contenson, "to avenge my poor Peyrade! I will discover the men who are guilty of his death and of his daughter's ruin.
A rusty black coat! and everything well brushed, clean after a fashion, and graced by a watch and an imitation gold chain. Contenson allowed a triangle of shirt to show, with pleats in which glittered a sham diamond pin; his black velvet stock set stiff like a gorget, over which lay rolls of flesh as red as that of a Caribbee.
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