“Oh! the farmer’s wife will say this, will she?” demanded Catenac, in a tone of the utmost surprise.

“Yes, this, and nothing more.  Then the husband will explain that they found the poor lad half dead in a ditch by the side of the road, and that they took him home, and did what they could for him; and will add, this was in the beginning of September, 1856.  You will offer to read him your description of the lad, but he will volunteer his own, which you will find exactly to tally with the one you have.  Then Lorgelin will tell you what an excellent lad he was, and how the farm seemed quite another place as long as he remained there.  All the family will join in singing his praises—­he was so good-tempered, so obliging, and at thirteen he could write like a lawyer’s clerk.  And then they will produce some of his writing in an old copy book.  But after all the old woman, with a tear in her eye, will say that she found the lad had not much gratitude in his composition, for at the end of the following September he left the farm where he had received so much kindness.  Yes, he left them to go away with some strolling performers.  You will be absolutely affected by the words of these worthy people, and before you leave they will show you the clothes the lad left behind him.”

Catenac was waiting for the conclusion, and then exclaimed, in rather a disappointed tone,—­

“But I do not see what we have gained when Lorgelin’s story has been repeated to us.”

Mascarin raised his hand, as though to deprecate immediate criticism, and to ask for further patience on the part of his audience.

“Permit me to go on,” said he.  “You would now not know what to do, but Perpignan will not hesitate for a moment.  He will tell you that he holds the end of the clue, and that all that remains to be done is to follow it up carefully.”

“I think that you overrate Perpignan’s talents.”

“Not a bit; each man to his own line of business.  Besides, if he wanders off the course, you must get him back to it.  In this you must act diplomatically.  His first move will naturally be to take you to the office of the mayor of the township, where a register of licenses is kept.  There you will find that in September, 1857, there passed through the place a troupe of travelling performers, consisting of nine persons, with the caravans, under the management of a man known as Vigoureux, nicknamed the Grasshopper.”

Catenac rapidly jotted down these items.  “Not so fast,” said he; “I cannot follow you.”

After a short pause, Mascarin continued.

“An attentive examination of the book will prove to you that no other troupe of itinerant performers passed through the place during that month; and it is clear that it must have been the Grasshopper with whom the lad went away.  You will then peruse the man’s description.  Vigoureux, born at Bourgogne, Vosges.  Age, forty-seven.  Height, six feet two inches.  Eyes, small and gray, rather near-sighted.  Complexion dark.  Third finger of left hand cut off at first joint.  If you confound him, after reading this, with any other man of his profession, you must certainly be rather foolish.”