It was impossible to
believe that the owner of such a face, in which a look of stupidity
was mingled with one of perpetual astonishment, could possess superior
talent, or even an average amount of intelligence. With his retreating
forehead, and his immense ears, his odious turned-up nose, tiny eyes,
and coarse, thick lips, M. Tabaret seemed an excellent type of the
ignorant, pennywise, petty rentier class. Whenever he took his walks
abroad, the juvenile street Arabs would impudently shout after him or
try to mimic his favorite grimace. And yet his ungainliness did not seem
to worry him in the least, while he appeared to take real pleasure
in increasing his appearance of stupidity, solacing himself with the
reflection that "he is not really a genius who seems to be one."
At the sight of the two detectives, whom he knew very well, his eyes
sparkled with pleasure. "Good morning, Lecoq, my boy," said he. "Good
morning, my old Absinthe. So you think enough down there of poor Papa
Tirauclair to come and see him?"
"We need your advice, Monsieur Tabaret."
"Ah, ah!"
"We have just been as completely outwitted as if we were babies in long
clothes."
"What! was your man such a very cunning fellow?"
Lecoq heaved a sigh. "So cunning," he replied, "that, if I were
superstitious, I should say he was the devil himself."
The sick man's face wore a comical expression of envy. "What! you have
found a treasure like that," said he, "and you complain! Why, it is
a magnificent opportunity--a chance to be proud of! You see, my boys,
everything has degenerated in these days.
Pages:
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357