ssaire is too late; the malefactor has escaped," said M.
Pipelet, in a sorrowful voice; "but I will give you his
description,--villainous smile, impudent look, insulting--"

"Of whom do you speak?" inquired the magistrate.

"Of Cabrion, M. le Commissaire; but, perhaps, if you make all haste, it
is not yet too late to catch him," added M. Pipelet.

"I know nothing about any Cabrion," said the magistrate, impatiently.
"Does one Jerome Morel, a working lapidary, live in this house?"

"Yes, mon commissaire," said Madame Pipelet, putting herself into a
military attitude.

"Conduct me to his apartment."

"Morel, the lapidary!" said the porteress, excessively surprised; "why,
he is the mildest lambkin in the world. He is incapable of--"

"Does Jerome Morel live here or not?"

"He lives here, sir, with his family, in one of the attics."

"Lead me to his attic."

Then, addressing himself to a man who accompanied him, the magistrate
said:

"Let two of the municipal guard wait below, and not leave the entrance.
Send Justing for a hackney-coach."

The man left the lodge to put these orders in execution.

"Now," continued the magistrate, addressing himself to M. Pipelet, "lead
me to Morel."

"If it is all the same to you, mon commissaire, I will do that for
Alfred; he is indisposed from Cabrion's behaviour, which, just as the
cabbage does, troubles his pylorus."

"You or your husband, it is no matter which. Go forward."

And, preceded by Madame Pipelet, he ascended the staircase, but soon
stopped when he saw Rodolph and Rigolette following him.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" he inquired.

"They are two lodgers in the fourth story," said Madame Pipelet.

"I beg your pardon, sir, I did not know that you belonged to the house,"
said he to Rodolph.

The latter, auguring well from the polite behaviour of the magistrate,
said to him:

"You are going to see a family in a state of deep misery, sir. I do not
know what fresh stroke of ill fortune threatens this unhappy artisan,
but he has been cruelly tried last night,--one of his daughters, worn
down by illness, is dead before his eyes,--dead from cold and misery."

"Is it possible?"

"It is, indeed, the fact, mon commissaire," said Madame Pipelet. "But
for this gentleman who speaks to you, and who is a king of lodgers, for
he has saved poor Morel from prison by his generosity, the whole family
of the lapidary must have died of hunger."

The commissary l