"No more jokes! Your name?"

"Isidore Beautrelet."

"Your occupation?"

"Sixth-form pupil at the Lycee Janson-de-Sailly."

M. Filleul opened a pair of startled eyes.

"What are you talking about? Sixth-form pupil--"

"At the Lycee Janson, Rue de la Pompe, number--"

"Oh, look here," exclaimed M. Filleul, "you're trying to take me in!
This won't do, you know; a joke can go too far!"

"I must say, Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction, that your astonishment
surprises me. What is there to prevent my being a sixth-form pupil
at the Lycee Janson? My beard, perhaps? Set your mind at ease: my
beard is false!"

Isidore Beautrelet pulled off the few curls that adorned his chin,
and his beardless face appeared still younger and pinker, a genuine
schoolboy's face. And, with a laugh like a child's, revealing his
white teeth:

"Are you convinced now?" he asked. "Do you want more proofs? Here,
you can read the address on these letters from my father: 'To
Monsieur Isidore Beautrelet, Indoor Pupil, Lycee Janson-de-Sailly.'"