“You will be taken back to the Conciergerie,” said the magistrate, “and there await a decision as to your fate.”

Monsieur de Granville rang, and said to the office-boy who answered: 

“Beg Monsieur Garnery to come here, if he is in his room.”

Besides the forty-eight police commissioners who watch over Paris like forty-eight petty Providences, to say nothing of the guardians of Public Safety—­and who have earned the nickname of quart d’oeil, in thieves’ slang, a quarter of an eye, because there are four of them to each district,—­besides these, there are two commissioners attached equally to the police and to the legal authorities, whose duty it is to undertake delicate negotiation, and not frequently to serve as deputies to the examining judges.  The office of these two magistrates, for police commissioners are also magistrates, is known as the Delegates’ office; for they are, in fact, delegated on each occasion, and formally empowered to carry out inquiries or arrests.

These functions demand men of ripe age, proved intelligence, great rectitude, and perfect discretion; and it is one of the miracles wrought by Heaven in favor of Paris, that some men of that stamp are always forthcoming.  Any description of the Palais de Justice would be incomplete without due mention of these preventive officials, as they may be called, the most powerful adjuncts of the law; for though it must be owned that the force of circumstances has abrogated the ancient pomp and wealth of justice, it has materially gained in many ways.  In Paris especially its machinery is admirably perfect.

Monsieur de Granville had sent his secretary, Monsieur de Chargeboeuf, to attend Lucien’s funeral; he needed a substitute for this business, a man he could trust, and Monsieur Garnery was one of the commissioners in the Delegates’ office.

“Monsieur,” said Jacques Collin, “I have already proved to you that I have a sense of honor.  You let me go free, and I came back.—­By this time the funeral mass for Lucien is ended; they will be carrying him to the grave.  Instead of remanding me to the Conciergerie, give me leave to follow the boy’s body to Pere-Lachaise.  I will come back and surrender myself prisoner.”

“Go,” said Monsieur de Granville, in the kindest tone.

“One word more, monsieur.  The money belonging to that girl—­Lucien’s mistress—­was not stolen.  During the short time of liberty you allowed me, I questioned her servants.  I am sure of them as you are of your two commissioners of the Delegates’ office.  The money paid for the certificate sold by Mademoiselle Esther Gobseck will certainly be found in her room when the seals are removed.  Her maid remarked to me that the deceased was given to mystery-making, and very distrustful; she no doubt hid the banknotes in her bed.  Let the bedstead be carefully examined and taken to pieces, the mattresses unsewn—­the money will be found.”