Notre Dame into my waistcoat-pocket I should not dream of defending
myself; I should take to flight. And,' adds the writer, 'if my best
friend were under the same accusation, I should be so afraid of being
considered his accomplice that I should put my best friend outside the
door.' Perhaps, Monsieur Hennequin, I was seized with the first alarm.
Why should I blame you if seized with the second? Happily, this good
city of Paris has its reactions. And you can now offer me your hand.
Paris has by this time discovered that the two towers of Notre Dame are
not in my pocket."

There was a pause. De Mauleon had resettled himself at his desk, bending
over his papers, and his manner seemed to imply that he considered the
conversation at an end.

But a pang of shame, of remorse, of tender remembrance, shot across the
heart of the decorous, worldly, self-seeking man, who owed all that he
now was to the _ci-devant vaurien_ before him. Again he stretched forth
his hand, and this time grasped De Mauleon's warmly. "Forgive me," he
said, feelingly and hoarsely; "forgive me, I was to blame. By character,
and perhaps by the necessities of my career, I am over-timid to public
opinion, public scandal. Forgive me. Say if in anything now I can
requite, though but slightly, the service I owe you."

De Mauleon looked steadily at the Prefet, and said slowly, "Would you
serve me in turn? Are you sincere?"

The Prefet hesitated a moment, then answered firmly, "Yes."

"Well, then, what I ask of you is a frank opinion,--not as lawyer, not as
Prefet, but as a man who knows the present state of French society. Give