“Of my colleague, of course, who is now busy finishing his report—­of Monsieur Lecoq.”  Quite unintentionally, the worthy fellow had certainly become the young police agent’s godfather.  From that day forward, for his enemies as well as for his friends, he was and he remained “Monsieur” Lecoq.

“Ah! ah!” said the inspector, whose hearing was evidently impaired.  “Ah, he has discovered—­”

“The pot of roses which others did not scent, General.”  By this remark, Father Absinthe made an enemy of his superior officer.  But he cared little for that:  Lecoq had become his deity, and no matter what the future might reserve, the old veteran had resolved to follow his young colleague’s fortunes.

“We’ll see about that,” murmured the inspector, mentally resolving to have an eye on this youth whom success might transform into a rival.  He said no more, for the little party which he preceded had now overtaken him, and he stood aside to make way for the commissary of police.

This commissary was far from being a novice.  He had served for many years, and yet he could not repress a gesture of horror as he entered the Poivriere.  The sergeant-major of the 53d, who followed him, an old soldier, decorated and medaled—­who had smelt powder many scores of times—­was still more overcome.  He grew as pale as the corpses lying on the ground, and was obliged to lean against the wall for support.  The two physicians alone retained their stoical indifference.

Lecoq had risen, his report in his hand; he bowed, and assuming a respectful attitude, was waiting to be questioned.

“You must have passed a frightful night,” said the commissary, kindly; “and quite unnecessarily, since any investigation was superfluous.”

“I think, however,” replied the young police agent, having recourse to all his diplomacy, “that my time has not been entirely lost.  I have acted according to the instructions of my superior officer; I have searched the premises thoroughly, and I have ascertained many things.  I have, for example, acquired the certainty that the murderer had a friend, possibly an accomplice, of whom I can give quite a close description.  He must have been of middle age, and wore, if I am not mistaken, a soft cap and a brown woolen overcoat:  as for his boots—­”

“Zounds!” exclaimed Gevrol, “and I—­” He stopped short, like a man whose impulse had exceeded his discretion, and who would have gladly recalled his words.

“And you?” inquired the commissary, “pray, what do you mean?”

The inspector had gone too far to draw back, and, unwittingly, was now obliged to act as his own executioner.  “I was about to mention,” he said, “that this morning, an hour or so ago, while I was waiting for you, sir, before the station-house, at the Barriere d’Italie, where the murderer is confined, I noticed close by an individual whose appearance was not unlike that of the man described by Lecoq.  This man seemed to be very intoxicated, for he reeled and staggered against the walls.  He tried to cross the street, but fell down in the middle of it, in such a position that he would inevitably have been crushed by the first passing vehicle.”