Undoubtedly, at that moment, he gave himself
up for lost. Alone in the midst of Paris, without a penny, what was to
become of him? He knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was being
watched; that his steps were being dogged, that the first attempt he
made to inform his accomplice of his whereabouts would cost him his
secret--the secret which he plainly held as more precious than life
itself, and which, by immense sacrifices, he had so far been able to
preserve.
Having for some short time contemplated in silence this unfortunate man
whom after all he could but esteem and admire, Lecoq turned to his old
companion: "What did he do on the way?" he asked.
"He went into the shops of five dealers in second-hand clothing without
success. Then he addressed a man who was passing with a lot of old
rubbish on his shoulder: but the man wouldn't even answer him."
Lecoq nodded his head thoughtfully. "The moral of this is, that there's
a vast difference between theory and practise," he remarked. "Here's a
fellow who has made some most discerning men believe that he's only
a poor devil, a low buffoon. Well, now he's free; and this so-called
Bohemian doesn't even know how to go to work to sell the clothes on
his back. The comedian who could play his part so well on the stage has
disappeared; while the man remains--the man who has always been rich,
and knows nothing of the vicissitudes of life."
The young detective suddenly ceased moralizing, for May had risen from
his seat.
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