MARCELINE got up as much to hide her feelings as to find out if the nickel-plated revolver was in its usual place in the drawer. Upon her return she was greatly agitated, and told them that the revolver had been removed.

ThÉophraste advised her to calm herself, saying there was nothing of importance in that; and he proceeded to read about the crime in the Rue du Bac, saying that the journalist who wrote the narrative was more intelligent, and had made his report more interesting than the first one.

“However,” said he, “there are a few inaccuracies and omissions in his narrative. According to him one is led to think that Cartouche indulged in amorous proceedings with Mme. de Bithigne after supper. However, such a thing should not be allowed to get abroad, as no such thing happened. He had no other intention than to take supper with the lady.

“Why, my dear Marceline, if I had intended otherwise, my reputation would have suffered, and Mme. la MarÉchale de Boufflers would have scorned me when I met her on July 13th, 1721.

“These gentlemen also relate that I outraged Mme. la MarÉchale de Boufflers. This is all wrong. I am very fond of her on account of her intellect, and our intercourse was most polite, as well as virtuous. If they had only studied more, these journalists would have known that Madame in 1721 was over sixty years old, and I dare say Cartouche knew many younger women to play such tricks on.”

ThÉophraste then took up the paper:

“‘The history of the Rue du Bac is much more simple. The Prefect of Police had received a note which ran: “If you dare, come and find me; I am always at the inn in the Rue du Bac, with Bernard.” It was signed “Cartouche.” The thing had occurred after Mme. de Bithigne had told her story. The Prefect thought over his case and laid his plans.

“‘That same evening, a quarter of an hour after midnight, half a dozen policemen raided the tavern in the Rue du Bac. They were met on the stairs by a man, who, although still young, had perfectly white hair. He was endowed with almost superhuman strength, and, on seeing the police, he picked up a chair near by and started striking them. Three of them were stunned, and the others only just had time to drag the prostrated bodies of their companions into the street to prevent them from being burned by a fire started on the first landing by this man with white hair. The man saved himself by jumping from roof to roof over spaces more than thirty feet high.

“‘The new Cartouche,’ continued ThÉophraste, amid the scared silence of Marceline and M. Le-camus, ‘the new Cartouche has taken possession of the Rue Guenegaud. Several days ago they found in a vault-like passage there under the floor the body of a young doctor, who had been active at the death of Mme. de Bardinoldi, the mystery of which had baffled the police and press. The police had not confided to any one the fact that pinned to the young doctor’s tunic was a card on which some one had written in pencil: “We will meet each other in the other world, M. de Traneuse.” This was without doubt a crime of the new Cartouche, for the old one did in fact assassinate at this place an engineer named Traneuse. Cartouche had knocked him on the head with a stick, and the young doctor had had his skull fractured with a blunt instrument.’”

ThÉophraste laid down the paper, and, looking at Adolphe and Marceline, remarked that they both looked as if they were expecting a like catastrophe.

“Why, my dear Adolphe,” said he, “it is ridiculous for you to be angry at such pleasantries. I take the opportunity of telling you that I often frequent the Rue Guenegaud. That history of M. de Traneuse was to me the beginning of one of the prettiest farces that ever I played with M. d’Argenson’s spies. Following the death of M. de Traneuse (who had allowed some very improper talk about me), I was followed by two patrols of the guard, who covered me and rendered all resistance impossible. But they were ignorant that I was Cartouche, and satisfied themselves by conducting me to the Ford l’Avegne, which was the easiest prison in Paris. In this prison they put debtors, drunks, and disorderly people, and the people who have not paid their fines. They were sure that they had taken Cartouche on the 10th of January, but on the evening of the 9th Cartouche had made his escape, and took the direction of his police. It was time, for everybody was now searching the streets of Paris.

“My dear Marceline, and my dear Adolphe, you look as if you were at a funeral. That article does not lose its quota of a certain amount of wit. At first I thought it only the jest of a cheap journalist, but I see now that it is very serious, believe me. Wait for the history of the calf! Ah! We have not done yet with the affair of the Petits Augustines! Listen!”

ThÉophraste picked up his paper, adjusted his gold spectacles, and began again:

“‘That which was the most extraordinary in this adventure was that several times during light days they have been on the point of capturing this modern Cartouche, and that he always escaped just as the other did, by way of the chimneys. History teaches us that the true Cartouche designed on the 11th of June, 1721, to sack the Hotel Desmarets, Rue des Petits Augustines. It was one of his men, Le Ratichon, who had given him the idea. But Cartouche and Le Ratichon had been imprisoned by the police. As soon as Cartouche was in the house, the bailiffs hastened there and the place was invaded. He tranquilly closed the doors of the salons and extinguished the lights, undressed himself, climbed into the chimney, descended by another way into the kitchen, where he found a scullion, killed the scullion, disguised himself with the dead man’s clothes, and went out in fine form from the hotel, killing two bailiffs with two pistol shots because they asked him news of Cartouche. Well, what will you say when you know that our Cartouche was surrounded the day before yesterday in a confectioner’s shop in a quarter of the Augustines, escaped by the chimney, after having put on over all his effects, to prevent soiling them, the pastry cook’s blouse, which had been found on the roofs, also his pantaloons. As to the pastry cook, they found him half buried in his bake oven. But, before putting him there, as a humane precaution, the murderer, Cartouche, had assassinated him.’ ”

Here ThÉophraste, interrupting himself again, cried:

“Previously, previously. I had previously assassinated him.... But why do you fly into the corners? Are you afraid? Let us see, my dear Adolphe, my dear Marceline, a little coolness- you will need it for the history of the calf.”