AT midnight an artisan was singing in a square in Paris, at the side of the ancient Quarter d’Enfer, the hymn which several months later became so popular, the “International.” That artisan was working with several companions repairing the track, which had sustained certain damages, following the construction of a new drain. The track was bent in certain places, and even a house in that situation, a heavy new house of seven stories, was leaning. The city engineers were much concerned by this state of affairs. They knew that in this quarter the catacombs projected their innumerable tunnels, their thousands of drains, and that certain buildings were in a very precarious state.

There are ancient Gallic-Roman quarries under those tottering walls, and so they determined on some work to make these houses secure.

The day which interests us saw the end of this work. The artisan who sang the “International” had, with his companions, completed the stopping of a hole in the subterranean vault that they had previously strengthened with very heavy pillars, several meters high.

It was just about twilight when they relinquished their work, and the workman who sang the “International” had almost finished stopping up the hole at that hour.

At the same hour, not far away on the square, in front of an electrical lamp store, a few people stood about on the pavement, and M. Mifroid was buying a few lamps for his men. He had paid for them and was just leaving the store with his package, when he saw in front of the store a young man with white hair. He was so taken aback that he slipped into his pockets, without having paid for them, several electrical lamps. Always courageous, M. Mifroid bounded toward the man, crying: “It is Cartouche!” He had recognized him, for since the revenge of the calf, all the commissioners of police had the portrait of Cartouche in their pockets. We should add that Mme. Longuet herself, and M. Lecamus, immediately after the reading relative to the calf, had shut M. Longuet up, with the design of sending an urgent communication to the nearest Commissariat.

Then M. Mifroid, who had known our hero as ThÉophraste, when he had dined with him, and who recognized him as Cartouche, cried out in bounding toward him: “It is Cartouche!”

ThÉophraste had known for days what the police wanted with him, and when he saw Mifroid and heard the words “It is Cartouche!” he said to himself: “It is time for me to get out of this.” And he ran down the street.

The commissioner ran on behind him, and was just grabbing him by the collar, when they both fell down the hole which the workman was filling.

The man had left for a few minutes to drink with his companions at the saloon near by, and on his return he completed his work, not knowing that the two men had fallen, and so they were imprisoned.