been blackmailed. To his office, as to a lay confessional, all
passions fatally lead. In his presence the dirty linen of two
millions of people is washed _en famille_.

A Paris commissary of police, who after ten years' practice, could
retain an illusion, believe in something, or be astonished at any
thing in the world, would be but a fool. If he is still capable
of some emotion, he is a good man.

The one who had just walked into M. Favoral's apartment was already
past middle age, colder than ice, and yet kindly, but of that
commonplace kindliness which frightens like the executioner's
politeness at the scaffold.

He required but a single glance of his small but clear eyes to
decipher the physiognomies of all these worthy people standing
around the disordered table. And beckoning to the agents who
accompanied him to stop at the door,--"Monsieur Vincent Favoral?"
he inquired. The cashier's guests, M. Desormeaux excepted,
seemed stricken with stupor. Each one felt as if he had a share
of the disgrace of this police invasion. The dupes who are
sometimes caught in clandestine "hells" have the same humiliated
attitudes.

At last, and not without an effort,

"M. Favoral is no longer here," replied M. Chapelain, the old
lawyer.

The commissary of police started. Whilst they were discussing with