He was a man about forty-six years of age, strongly built, with rugged features, a heavy mustache, and rather small, gray eyes, hidden by bushy eyebrows.  His name was Gevrol, but he was universally known as “the General.”  This sobriquet was pleasing to his vanity, which was not slight, as his subordinates well knew; and, doubtless, he felt that he ought to receive from them the same consideration as was due to a person of that exalted rank.

“If you begin to complain already,” he added, gruffly, “what will you do by and by?”

In fact, it was too soon to complain.  The little party were then passing along the Rue de Choisy.  The people on the footways were orderly; and the lights of the wine-shops illuminated the street.  All these places were open.  There is no fog or thaw that is potent enough to dismay lovers of pleasure.  And a boisterous crowd of maskers filled each tavern, and public ballroom.  Through the open windows came alternately the sounds of loud voices and bursts of noisy music.  Occasionally, a drunken man staggered along the pavement, or a masked figure crept by in the shadow cast by the houses.

Before certain establishments Gevrol commanded a halt.  He gave a peculiar whistle, and almost immediately a man came out.  This was another member of the force.  His report was listened to, and then the squad passed on.

“To the left, boys!” ordered Gevrol; “we will take the Rue d’Ivry, and then cut through the shortest way to the Rue de Chevaleret.”

From this point the expedition became really disagreeable.  The way led through an unfinished, unnamed street, full of puddles and deep holes, and obstructed with all sorts of rubbish.  There were no longer any lights or crowded wine-shops.  No footsteps, no voices were heard; solitude, gloom, and an almost perfect silence prevailed; and one might have supposed oneself a hundred leagues from Paris, had it not been for the deep and continuous murmur that always arises from a large city, resembling the hollow roar of a torrent in some cavern depth.

All the men had turned up their trousers and were advancing slowly, picking their way as carefully as an Indian when he is stealing upon his prey.  They had just passed the Rue du Chateau-des-Rentiers when suddenly a wild shriek rent the air.  At this place, and at this hour, such a cry was so frightfully significant, that all the men paused as if by common impulse.

“Did you hear that, General?” asked one of the detectives, in a low voice.

“Yes, there is murder going on not far from here—­but where?  Silence! let us listen.”

They all stood motionless, holding their breath, and anxiously listening.  Soon a second cry, or rather a wild howl, resounded.

“Ah!” exclaimed the inspector, “it is at the Poivriere.”

This peculiar appellation “Poivriere” or “pepper-box” was derived from the term “peppered” which in French slang is applied to a man who has left his good sense at the bottom of his glass.  Hence, also, the sobriquet of “pepper thieves” given to the rascals whose specialty it is to plunder helpless, inoffensive drunkards.