d in various places, were covered with a species of fluff which
made them offensive to the eye. Whether it was that his damp clothes
exhaled a fetid odor, or that he had in his normal condition the "poor
smell" which belongs to Parisian tenements, just as offices, sacristies,
and hospitals have their own peculiar and rancid fetidness, of which
no words can give the least idea, or whether some other reason affected
them, those in the vicinity of this man immediately moved away and
left him alone. He cast upon them and also upon the officer a calm,
expressionless look, the celebrated look of Monsieur de Talleyrand,
a dull, wan glance, without warmth, a species of impenetrable veil,
beneath which a strong soul hides profound emotions and close estimation
of men and things and events. Not a fold of his face quivered. His mouth
and forehead were impassible; but his eyes moved and lowered themselves
with a noble, almost tragic slowness. There was, in fact, a whole drama
in the motion of those withered eyelids.

The aspect of this stoical figure gave rise in Monsieur de Maulincour
to one of those vagabond reveries which begin with a common question and
end by comprising a world of thought. The storm was past. Monsieur de
Maulincour presently saw no more of the man than the tail of his coat
as it brushed the gate-post, but as he turned to leave his own place
he noticed at his feet a letter which must have fallen from the unknown
beggar when he took, as the baron had seen him take, a handkerchief from
his pocket. The young man picked it up, and read, involuntarily, the
address: "To Monsieur Ferragusse, Rue des Grands-Augustains, corner of
rue Soly."

The letter bore no postmark, and the address prevented Monsieur de
Maulincour from following the beggar and returning it; for there are few
passions that will not fail in rectitude in the long run. The baron
had a presentiment of the opportunity afforded by this windfall. He
determined to keep the letter, which would give him the right to enter
the mysterious house to return it to the strange man, not doubting that
he lived there. Suspicions, vague as the first faint gleams of daylight,
made him fancy relations between this man and Madame Jules. A jealous
lover supposes everything; and it is by supposing everything and
selecting the most probable of their conjectures that judges, spies,
lovers, and observers get at the truth they are looking for.

"Is the letter for him? Is it fro