such a man would continue to lend an ear to this supposed

independent gentleman of the Rue de Buffon, when the latter
dropped the mask of a decent citizen by that word "police," and

gave a glimpse of the features of a detective from the Rue de
Jerusalem? And yet nothing was more natural. Perhaps the

following remarks from the hitherto unpublished records made by
certain observers will throw a light on the particular species to

which Poiret belonged in the great family of fools. There is a
race of quill-drivers, confined in the columns of the budget

between the first degree of latitude (a kind of administrative
Greenland where the salaries begin at twelve hundred francs) to

the third degree, a more temperate zone, where incomes grow from
three to six thousand francs, a climate where the BONUS

flourishes like a half-hardy annual in spite of some difficulties
of culture. A characteristic trait that best reveals the feeble

narrow-mindedness of these inhabitants of petty officialdom is a
kind of involuntary, mechanical, and instinctivereverence for

the Grand Lama of every Ministry, known to the rank and file only
by his signature (an illegible scrawl) and by his title--"His

Excellency Monseigneur le Ministre," five words which produce as
much effect as the il Bondo Cani of the Calife de Bagdad, five

words which in the eyes of this low order of intelligence
represent a sacred power from which there is no appeal. The

Minister is administratively infallible for the clerks in the
employ of the Government, as the Pope is infallible for good

Catholics. Something of this peculiarradiance invests everything
he does or says, or that is said or done in his name; the robe of

office covers everything and legalizes everything done by his
orders; does not his very title--His Excellency--vouch for the

purity of his intentions and the righteousness of his will, and
serve as a sort of passport and introduction to ideas that

otherwise would not be entertained for a moment? Pronounce the
words "His Excellency," and these poor folk will forthwith

proceed to do what they would not do for their own interests.
Passive obedience is as well known in a Government department as

in the army itself; and the administrativesystem silences
consciences, annihilates the individual, and ends (give it time

enough) by fashioning a man into a vise or a thumbscrew, and he
becomes part of the machinery of Government. Wherefore, M.

Gondureau, who seemed to know something of human nature,
recognized Poiret at once as one of those dupes of officialdom,

and brought out for his benefit, at the proper moment, the deus
ex machina, the magical words "His Excellency," so as to dazzle

Poiret just as he himself unmasked his batteries, for he took
Poiret and the Michonneau for the male and female of the same

species.
"If his Excellency himself, his Excellency the Minister . . . Ah!

that is quite another thing," said Poiret.
"You seem to be guided by this gentleman's opinion, and you hear

what he says," said the man of independent means, addressing
Mlle. Michonneau. "Very well, his Excellency is at this moment

absolutely certain that the so-called Vautrin, who lodges at the
Maison Vauquer, is a convict who escaped from penal servitude at

Toulon, where he is known by the nickname Trompe-la-Mort."
"Trompe-la-Mort?" said Pioret. "Dear me, he is very lucky if he

deserves that nickname."
"Well, yes," said the detective. "They call him so because he has

been so lucky as not to lose his life in the very risky
businesses that he has carried through. He is a dangerous man,

you see! He has qualities that are out of the common; the thing
he is wanted for, in fact, was a matter which gained him no end

of credit with his own set----"
"Then is he a man of honor?" asked Poiret.

"Yes, according to his notions. He agreed to take another man's
crime upon himself--a forgery committed by a very handsome young

fellow that he had taken a great fancy to, a young Italian, a bit
of a gambler, who has since gone into the army, where his conduct

has been unexceptionable."
"But if his Excellency the Minister of Police is certain that M.

Vautrin is this Trompe-la-Mort, why should he want me?" asked
Mlle. Michonneau.

"Oh yes," said Poiret, "if the Minister, as you have been so
obliging as to tell us, really knows for a certainty----"

"Certainty is not the word; he only suspects. You will soon
understand how things are. Jacques Collin, nicknamed Trompe-la-

Mort, is in the confidence of every convict in the three prisons;
he is their man of business and their banker. He makes a very

good thing out of managing their affairs, which want a MAN OF
MARK to see about them."

"Ha! ha! do you see the pun, mademoiselle?" asked Poiret. "This
gentleman calls himself a MAN OF MARK because he is a MARKED MAN--

branded, you know."
"This so-called Vautrin," said the detective, "receives the money

belonging to my lords the convicts, invests it for them, and
holds it at the disposal of those who escape, or hands it over to

their families if they leave a will, or to their mistresses when
they draw upon him for their benefit."

"Their mistresses! You mean their wives," remarked Poiret.
"No, sir. A convict's wife is usually an illegitimate connection.

We call them concubines."
"Then they all live in a state of concubinage?"

"Naturally."
"Why, these are abominations that his Excellency ought not to

allow. Since you have the honor of seeing his Excellency, you,
who seem to have philanthropic ideas, ought really to enlighten

him as to their immoral conduct--they are setting a shocking
example to the rest of society."

"But the Government does not hold them up as models of all the
virtues, my dear sir----"

"Of course not, sir; but still----"
"Just let the gentleman say what he has to say, dearie," said

Mlle. Michonneau.
"You see how it is, mademoiselle," Gondureau continued. "The

Government may have the strongest reasons for getting this
illicit hoard into its hands; it mounts up to something

considerable, by all that we can make out. Trompe-la-Mort not
only holds large sums for his friends the convicts, but he has

other amounts which are paid over to him by the Society of the
Ten Thousand----"

"Ten Thousand Thieves!" cried Pioret in alarm.
"No. The Society of the Ten Thousand is not an association of

petty offenders, but of people who set about their work on a
large scale--they won't touch a matter unless there are ten

thousand francs in it. It is composed of the most distinguished
of the men who are sent straight to the Assize Courts when they

come up for trial. They know the Code too well to risk their
necks when they are nabbed. Collin is their confidential agent

and legal adviser. By means of the large sums of money at his
disposal he has established a sort of detectivesystem of his

own; it is widespread and mysterious in its workings. We have had
spies all about him for a twelvemonth, and yet we could not

manage to fathom his games. His capital and his cleverness are at
the service of vice and crime; this money furnishes the necessary

funds for a regular army of blackguards in his pay who wage
incessant war against society. If we can catch Trompe-la-Mort,