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This glance, which could not escape Trompe-la-Mort, who was watching Monsieur de Granville, directed his attention to the strange little old man sitting in an armchair in a corner.
"That venerable priest wants to sit down; send out a chair for him," said he. And so Bibi-Lupin's plot had failed. Trompe-la-Mort, like a Napoleon recognized by his soldiers, had won the submission and respect of the three felons. Two words had done it. Your molls and your blunt your women and your money epitomizing every true affection of man.
"You said there was no one here," said he in a whisper to Europe. And with an excess of prudence, after looking at the messenger, he went straight into the drawing-room. Trompe-la-Mort did not know that for some time past the famous constable of the detective force who had arrested him at the Maison Vauquer had a rival, who, it was supposed, would replace him. This rival was the messenger.
Michonneau interposed at this point with, "What is there to hinder Trompe-la-Mort from making off with the money?" "Oh!" said the detective, "a man is told off to follow him everywhere he goes, with orders to kill him if he were to rob the convicts. Then it is not quite as easy to make off with a lot of money as it is to run away with a young lady of family.
You will presently hear that I have saved my boy from Jack Ketch," said Trompe-la-Mort. "Yes, Jack Ketch and his hairdresser were waiting in the office to get Madeleine ready. There," he added, "they have come to fetch me to go to the public prosecutor."
We want to be quite sure what we are about." "Yes, but what you want is a pretty woman," said Mlle. Michonneau briskly. "Trompe-la-Mort would not let a woman come near him," said the detective. "I will tell you a secret he does not like them." "Still, I do not see what I can do, supposing that I did agree to identify him for two thousand francs." "Nothing simpler," said the stranger.
"Well, then I want to leave the money to la Gonore," replied la Pouraille piteously. "What! Are you living with Moses' widow the Jew who led the swindling gang in the South?" asked Jacques Collin. For Trompe-la-Mort, like a great general, knew the person of every one of his army. "That's the woman," said la Pouraille, much flattered.
"But you were not there!" said the Corsican; "I was all alone " "And do you love the slut?" asked Jacques Collin, feeling that the reproach was a just one. "Oh! I want to live, but it is for you now rather than for her." "Be quite easy, I am not called Trompe-la-Mort for nothing. I undertake the case." "What! life?" cried the lad, lifting his swaddled hands towards the damp vault of the cell.
Trompe-la-Mort had realized the German superstition of a doppelganger by means of a spiritual paternity, a phenomenon which will be quite intelligible to those women who have ever truly loved, who have felt their soul merge in that of the man they adore, who have lived his life, whether noble or infamous, happy or unhappy, obscure or brilliant; who, in defiance of distance, have felt a pain in their leg if he were wounded in his; who if he fought a duel would have been aware of it; and who, to put the matter in a nutshell, did not need to be told he was unfaithful to know it.
Theodore hastily told all the details of the crime, of which Jacques Collin knew nothing. "The jury gave their verdict without proof," he said finally. "Child! you want to argue when they are waiting to cut off your hair " "But I might have been sent to spout the wedge. And that is the way they judge you! and in Paris too!" "But how did you do the job?" asked Trompe-la-Mort. "Ah! there you are.
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