in a land of unbridled publicity like ours, wherever the hand of the police appears, if even to lay bare the most shameful villany, there’s always a hue and cry against the government.  Public opinion behaves like the man to whom another man sang an air of Mozart to prove that Mozart was a great musician.  Was he vanquished by evidence?  ‘Mozart,’ he replied to the singer, ’may have been a great musician, but you, my dear fellow, have a cold in your head.’”

“There’s a great deal of truth in what you say,” replied Franchessini; “but the man whom Maxime wants to unmask may be one of those honest mediocrities who make themselves a thorn in the side of all administrations; your most dangerous adversaries are not the giants of oratory.”

“I expect to find out the real weight of the man before long,” replied Rastignac, “from a source I have more confidence in than I have in Monsieur de Trailles.  On this very occasion he has allowed himself to be tripped up, and now wants to compensate by heroic measures for his own lack of ability.  As for your other man, I shall not employ him for the purpose Maxime suggests, but you may tell him from me—­”

“Yes!” said Franchessini, with redoubled attention.

“—­that if he meddles in politics, as he shows an inclination to do, there are certain deplorable memories in his life—­”

“But they are only memories now; he has made himself a new skin.”

“I know all about him,” replied Rastignac; “do you suppose there are no other detectives in Paris?  I know that since 1830, when he took Bibi-Lupin’s place as chief of the detective police, he has given his life a most respectable bourgeois character; the only fault I find is that he overdoes it.”

“And yet—­” said the colonel.

“He is rich,” continued Rastignac, not heeding the interruption.  “His salary is twelve thousand francs, and he has the three hundred thousand Lucien de Rubempre left him,—­also the proceeds of a manufactory of varnished leather which he started at Gentilly; it pays him a large profit.  His aunt, Jacqueline Collin, who lives with him, still does a shady business secretly, which of course brings in large fees, and I have the best of reasons for believing that they both gamble at the Bourse.  He is so anxious to keep out of the mud that he has gone to the other extreme.  Every evening he plays dominoes, like any bourgeois, in a cafe near the Prefecture, and Sundays he goes out to a little box of a place he has bought near the forest of Romainville, in the Saint-Gervais meadows; there he cultivates blue dahlias, and talked, last year, of crowning a Rosiere.  All that, my dear colonel, is too bucolic to allow of my employing him on any political police-work.”

“I think myself,” said Franchessini, “that in order not to attract attention, he rolls himself too much into a ball.”

“Make him unwind, and then, if he wants to return to active life and take a hand in politics, he may find some honest way of doing so.  He’ll never make a Saint Vincent de Paul,—­though the saint was at the galleys once upon a time; but there are plenty of ways in which he could get a third or fourth class reputation.  If Monsieur de Saint-Esteve, as he now calls himself, takes that course, and I am still in power, tell him to come and see me; I might employ him then.”