Let us go and ask his advice, my course will depend on
his reply--come!"
After such a day and such a night, it might have been expected that
these two men would have felt an irresistible desire to sleep and rest.
But Lecoq was sustained by wounded vanity, intense disappointment, and
yet unextinguished hope of revenge: while poor Father Absinthe was not
unlike some luckless cab-horse, which, having forgotten there is such a
thing as repose, is no longer conscious of fatigue, but travels on until
he falls down dead. The old detective felt that his limbs were failing
him; but Lecoq said: "It is necessary," and so he walked on.
They both went to Lecoq's lodgings, where they laid aside their
disguises and made themselves trim. Then after breakfasting they hastily
betook themselves to the Rue St. Lazare, where, entering one of the most
stylish houses in the street, Lecoq inquired of the concierge: "Is M.
Tabaret at home?"
"Yes, but he's ill," was the reply.
"Very ill?" asked Lecoq anxiously.
"It is hard to tell," replied the man: "it is his old complaint--gout."
And with an air of hypocritical commiseration, he added: "M. Tabaret is
not wise to lead the life he does. Women are very well in a way, but at
his age--"
The two detectives exchanged a meaning glance, and as soon as they were
out of hearing burst out laughing. Their hilarity had scarcely ceased
when they reached the first floor, and rang the bell at the door of one
of the apartments.
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