“Shall we, or shall we not, ascertain the antecedents of this woman!” repeated old Tabaret.  “All depends upon that now!”

“We shall ascertain them, if the grocer’s wife has told the truth,” replied M. Daburon.  “If the husband of Widow Lerouge was a sailor, and if her son Jacques is in the navy, the minister of marine can furnish information that will soon lead to their discovery.  I will write to the minister this very night.”

They reached the station at Rueil, and took their places in the train.  They were fortunate enough to secure a 1st class carriage to themselves.  But old Tabaret was no longer disposed for conversation.  He reflected, he sought, he combined; and in his face might easily be read the working of his thoughts.  M. Daburon watched him curiously and felt singularly attracted by this eccentric old man, whose very original taste had led him to devote his services to the secret police of the Rue de Jerusalem.

“M Tabaret,” he suddenly asked, “have you been long associated with the police?”

“Nine years, M. Daburon, more than nine years; and permit me to confess I am a little surprised that you have never before heard of me.”

“I certainly knew you by reputation,” answered M. Daburon; “but your name did not occur to me, and it was only in consequence of hearing you praised that I had the excellent idea of asking your assistance.  But what, I should like to know, is your reason for adopting this employment?”

“Sorrow, sir, loneliness, weariness.  Ah!  I have not always been happy!”

“I have been told, though, that you are rich.”

The old fellow heaved a deep sigh, which revealed the most cruel deceptions.  “I am well off, sir,” he replied; “but I have not always been so.  Until I was forty-five years old, my life was a series of absurd and useless privations.  I had a father who wasted my youth, ruined my life, and made me the most pitiable of human creatures.”

There are men who can never divest themselves of their professional habits.  M. Daburon was at all times and seasons more or less an investigating magistrate.

“How, M. Tabaret,” he inquired, “your father the author of all your misfortunes?”

“Alas, yes, sir!  I have forgiven him at last; but I used to curse him heartily.  In the first transports of my resentment, I heaped upon his memory all the insults that can be inspired by the most violent hatred, when I learnt,—­But I will confide my history to you, M. Daburon.  When I was five and twenty years of age.  I was earning two thousand francs a year, as a clerk at the Monte de Piete.  One morning my father entered my lodging, and abruptly announced to me that he was ruined, and without food or shelter.  He appeared in despair, and talked of killing himself.  I loved my father.  Naturally, I strove to reassure him; I boasted of my situation, and explained to him at some length, that, while I earned the means for living, he should want for nothing; and, to commence, I insisted that henceforth we should live together.  No sooner said than done, and during twenty years I was encumbered with the old—­”