On a large canopied bed, sweating and panting beneath the weight of numerous blankets, lay the two-faced oracle—­Tirauclair, of the Prefecture—­Tabaret, of the Rue Saint Lazare.  It was impossible to believe that the owner of such a face, in which a look of stupidity was mingled with one of perpetual astonishment, could possess superior talent, or even an average amount of intelligence.  With his retreating forehead, and his immense ears, his odious turned-up nose, tiny eyes, and coarse, thick lips, M. Tabaret seemed an excellent type of the ignorant, pennywise, petty rentier class.  Whenever he took his walks abroad, the juvenile street Arabs would impudently shout after him or try to mimic his favorite grimace.  And yet his ungainliness did not seem to worry him in the least, while he appeared to take real pleasure in increasing his appearance of stupidity, solacing himself with the reflection that “he is not really a genius who seems to be one.”

At the sight of the two detectives, whom he knew very well, his eyes sparkled with pleasure.  “Good morning, Lecoq, my boy,” said he.  “Good morning, my old Absinthe.  So you think enough down there of poor Papa Tirauclair to come and see him?”

“We need your advice, Monsieur Tabaret.”

“Ah, ah!”

“We have just been as completely outwitted as if we were babies in long clothes.”

“What! was your man such a very cunning fellow?”

Lecoq heaved a sigh.  “So cunning,” he replied, “that, if I were superstitious, I should say he was the devil himself.”

The sick man’s face wore a comical expression of envy.  “What! you have found a treasure like that,” said he, “and you complain!  Why, it is a magnificent opportunity—­a chance to be proud of!  You see, my boys, everything has degenerated in these days.  The race of great criminals is dying out—­those who’ve succeeded the old stock are like counterfeit coins.  There’s scarcely anything left outside a crowd of low offenders who are not worth the shoe leather expended in pursuing them.  It is enough to disgust a detective, upon my word.  No more trouble, emotion, anxiety, or excitement.  When a crime is committed nowadays, the criminal is in jail the next morning, you’ve only to take the omnibus, and go to the culprit’s house and arrest him.  He’s always found, the more the pity.  But what has your fellow been up to?”

“He has killed three men.”

“Oh! oh! oh!” said old Tabaret, in three different tones, plainly implying that this criminal was evidently superior to others of his species.  “And where did this happen?”

“In a wine-shop near the barriere.”

“Oh, yes, I recollect:  a man named May.  The murders were committed in the Widow Chupin’s cabin.  I saw the case mentioned in the ’Gazette des Tribunaux,’ and your comrade, Fanferlot l’Ecureuil, who comes to see me, told me you were strangely puzzled about the prisoner’s identity.  So you are charged with investigating the affair?  So much the better.  Tell me all about it, and I will assist you as well as I can.”