p of hair, the whole head was in harmony with his powerful
frame, and at that moment the fires of hell seemed to gleam from his
eyes. In that flash the real Vautrin shone forth, revealed at once
before them all; they understood his past, his present, and future, his
pitiless doctrines, his actions, the religion of his own good pleasure,
the majesty with which his cynicism and contempt for mankind invested
him, the physical strength of an organization proof against all trials.
The blood flew to his face, and his eyes glared like the eyes of a wild
cat. He started back with savage energy and a fierce growl that drew
exclamations of alarm from the lodgers. At that leonine start the police
caught at their pistols under cover of the general clamor. Collin saw
the gleaming muzzles of the weapons, saw his danger, and instantly gave
proof of a power of the highest order. There was something horrible and
majestic in the spectacle of the sudden transformation in his face; he
could only be compared to a cauldron full of the steam that can send
mountains flying, a terrific force dispelled in a moment by a drop
of cold water. The drop of water that cooled his wrathful fury was a
reflection that flashed across his brain like lightning. He began to
smile, and looked down at his wig.

"You are not in the politest of humors to-day," he remarked to the
chief, and he held out his hands to the policemen with a jerk of his
head.

"Gentlemen," he said, "put on the bracelets or the handcuffs. I call on
those present to witness that I make no resistance."

A murmur of admiration ran through the room at the sudden outpouring
like fire and lava flood from this human volcano, and its equally sudden
cessation.

"There's a sell for you, master crusher," the convict added, looking at
the famous director of police.

"Come, strip!" said he of the Petite Rue Saint-Anne, contemptuously.

"Why?" asked Collin. "There are ladies present; I deny nothing, and
surrender."

He paused, and looked round the room like an orator who is about to
overwhelm his audience.

"Take this down, Daddy Lachapelle," he went on, addressing a little,
white-haired old man who had seated himself at the end of the table; and
after drawing a printed form from the portfolio, was proceeding to draw
up a document. "I acknowledge myself to be Jacques Collin, otherwise
known as Trompe-la-Mort, condemned to twenty years' penal servitude, and
I have just proved that I have come