laimed, "no one
ever tastes perfect happiness here below."

And concentrating all his thoughts on the task before him, he hurried on
his way.

VII

When, after a rapid walk of twenty minutes, Lecoq reached the police
station near the Barriere d'Italie, the doorkeeper, with his pipe in
his mouth, was pacing slowly to and fro before the guard-house. His
thoughtful air, and the anxious glances he cast every now and then
toward one of the little grated windows of the building sufficed to
indicate that some very rare bird indeed had been entrusted to his
keeping. As soon as he recognized Lecoq, his brow cleared, and he paused
in his promenade.

"Ah, well!" he inquired, "what news do you bring?"

"I have an order to conduct the prisoners to the prefecture."

The keeper rubbed his hands, and his smile of satisfaction plainly
implied that he felt a load the less on his shoulders.

"Capital! capital!" he exclaimed. "The Black Maria, the prison van, will
pass here in less than an hour; we will throw them in, and hurry the
driver off--"

Lecoq was obliged to interrupt the keeper's transports of satisfaction.
"Are the prisoners alone?" he inquired.

"Quite alone: the woman in one cell, and the man in the other. This
has been a remarkably quiet night, for Shrove Sunday! Quite surprising
indeed! It is true your hunt was interrupted."

"You had a drunken man here, however."

"No--yes--that's true--this morning just at daybreak. A poor devil, who
is under a great obligation to Gevrol."

The involuntary irony of this remark did not escape Lecoq. "Yes, under a
great obligation, indeed!" he said with a derisive laugh.

"You may laugh as much as you like," retorted the keeper, "but such is
really the case; if it hadn't been for Gevrol the man would certainly
have been run over."

"And what has become of him?"

The keeper shrugged his shoulders. "You ask me too much," he responded.
He was a worthy fellow who had been spending the night at a friend's
house, and on coming out into the open air, the wine flew into his head.
He told us all about it when he got sober, half an hour afterward. I
never saw a man so vexed as he was. He wept, and stammered: "The father
of a family, and at my age too! Oh! it is shameful! What shall I say to
my wife? What will the children think?"

"Did he talk much about his wife?"

"He talked about nothing else. He mentioned her name--Eudosia Leocadie,
or some name of that sort. He declar