I myself may choose?  Because, like you, my young friend, in spite of your Southern appearance, I was cold, profoundly calculating, never tempted to lose my time on trifles at the outskirts; because heat, when I was led by force of circumstances to employ it, never went below the surface.  It is more than probable that you have heard of me; well, for you I will open a window in my cloud; look at me, observe me well; have I a cloven hoof, or a tail at the end of my spine?  On the contrary, am I not a model of the most inoffensive of householders in the Saint-Sulpice quarter?  In that quarter, where I have enjoyed, I may say it, universal esteem for the last twenty-five years, I am called du Portail; but to you, if you will allow me, I shall now name myself Corentin.”

“Corentin!” cried la Peyrade, with terrified astonishment.

“Yes, monsieur; and you see that in telling you that secret I lay my hand upon you, and enlist you.  Corentin! ’the greatest man of the police in modern times,’ as the author of an article in the ‘Biographies of Living Men’ has said of me—­as to whom I ought in justice to remark that he doesn’t know a thing about my life.”

“Monsieur,” said la Peyrade, “I can assure you that I shall keep that secret; but the place which you offer me near you—­in your employ—­”

“That frightens you, or, at least, it makes you uneasy,” said Corentin, quickly.  “Before you have even considered the thing the word scares you, does it?  The police! Police! you are afraid to encounter the terrible prejudice that brands it on the brow.”

“Certainly,” said la Peyrade, “it is a necessary institution; but I do not think that it is always calumniated.  If the business of those who manage it is honorable why do they conceal themselves so carefully?”

“Because all that threatens society, which it is the mission of the police to repress,” replied Corentin, “is plotted and prepared in hiding.  Do thieves and conspirators put upon their hats, ’I am Guillot, the shepherd of this flock’?  And when we are after them must we ring a bell to let them know we are coming?”

“Monsieur,” said la Peyrade, “when a sentiment is universal it ceases to be a prejudice, it becomes an opinion; and this opinion ought to be a law to every man who desires to keep his own esteem and that of others.”

“And when you robbed that notary to enrich the Thuilliers for your own advantage,” said Corentin, “did you keep your own esteem and that of the Council of barristers?  And who knows, monsieur, if in your life there are not still blacker actions than that?  I am a more honorable man than you, because, outside of my functions, I have not one doubtful act upon my conscience; and when the opportunity for good has been presented to me I have done it—­always and everywhere.  Do you think that the guardianship of that poor insane girl in my home has been all roses?  But she was the daughter of my old friend, your uncle, and when, feeling the years creep on me, I propose to you, between sacks of money, to fit yourself to take my place—­”