ent, 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,