“Come, Chief,” said the sergeant, helping him up.  “This is all stuff and nonsense.  Trouble with women:  I’ve had it like everybody else.  Mme. Mazeroux—­yes, I got married while you were away—­Mme. Mazeroux turned out badly herself, gave me the devil of a time, Mme. Mazeroux did.  I’ll tell you all about it, Chief, how Mme. Mazeroux rewarded my kindness.”

He led Don Luis gently to the car and settled him on the front seat.

“Take a rest, Chief.  It’s not very cold and there are plenty of furs.  The first peasant that comes along at daybreak, I’ll send him to the next town for what we want—­and for food, too, for I’m starving.  And everything will come right; it always does with women.  All you have to do is to kick them out of your life—­except when they anticipate you and kick themselves out....  I was going to tell you:  Mme. Mazeroux—­”

Don Luis was never to learn what had happened with Mme. Mazeroux.  The most violent catastrophies had no effect upon the peacefulness of his slumbers.  He was asleep almost at once.

It was late in the morning when he woke up.  Mazeroux had had to wait till seven o’clock before he could hail a cyclist on his way to Chartres.

They made a start at nine o’clock.  Don Luis had recovered all his coolness.  He turned to his sergeant.

“I said a lot last night that I did not mean to say.  However, I don’t regret it.  Yes, it is my duty to do everything to save Mme. Fauville and to catch the real culprit.  Only the task falls upon myself; and I swear that I shan’t fail in it.  This evening Florence Levasseur shall sleep in the lockup!”

“I’ll help you, Chief,” replied Mazeroux, in a queer tone of voice.

“I need nobody’s help.  If you touch a single hair of her head, I’ll do for you.  Do you understand?”

“Yes, Chief.”

“Then hold your tongue.”

His anger was slowly returning and expressed itself in an increase of speed, which seemed to Mazeroux a revenge executed upon himself.  They raced over the cobble-stones of Chartres.  Rambouillet, Chevreuse, and Versailles received the terrifying vision of a thunderbolt tearing across them from end to end.

Saint-Cloud.  The Bois de Boulogne ...

On the Place de la Concorde, as the motor was turning toward the Tuileries, Mazeroux objected: 

“Aren’t you going home, Chief?”

“No.  There’s something more urgent first:  we must relieve Marie Fauville of her suicidal obsession by letting her know that we have discovered the criminals.”

“And then?”

“Then I want to see the Prefect of Police.”

“M.  Desmalions is away and won’t be back till this afternoon.”

“In that case the examining magistrate.”

“He doesn’t get to the law courts till twelve; and it’s only eleven now.”

“We’ll see.”

Mazeroux was right:  there was no one at the law courts.