e
look that had read his thoughts before--the look that had such power to
waken evil thoughts in his heart. He shuddered.

"Well, dear boy," said the escaped convict, "I am likely to cheat death
for a good while yet. According to these ladies, I have had a stroke
that would have felled an ox, and come off with flying colors."

"A bull you might say," cried the widow.

"You really might be sorry to see me still alive," said Vautrin in
Rastignac's ear, thinking that he guessed the student's thoughts. "You
must be mighty sure of yourself."

"Mlle. Michonneau was talking the day before yesterday about a gentleman
named _Trompe-la-Mort_," said Bianchon; "and, upon my word, that name
would do very well for you."

Vautrin seemed thunderstruck. He turned pale, and staggered back.
He turned his magnetic glance, like a ray of vivid light, on Mlle.
Michonneau; the old maid shrank and trembled under the influence of that
strong will, and collapsed into a chair. The mask of good-nature had
dropped from the convict's face; from the unmistakable ferocity of that
sinister look, Poiret felt that the old maid was in danger, and hastily
stepped between them. None of the lodgers understood this scene in the
least, they looked on in mute amazement. There was a pause. Just then
there was a sound of tramping feet outside; there were soldiers there,
it seemed, for there was a ring of several rifles on the pavement of
the street. Collin was mechanically looking round the walls for a way of
escape, when four men entered by way of the sitting-room.

"In the name of the King and the Law!" said an officer, but the words
were almost lost in a murmur of astonishment.

Silence fell on the room. The lodgers made way for three of the men, who
had each a hand on a cocked pistol in a side pocket. Two policemen, who
followed the detectives, kept the entrance to the sitting-room, and two
more men appeared in the doorway that gave access to the staircase. A
sound of footsteps came from the garden, and again the rifles of several
soldiers rang on the cobblestones under the window. All chance of
salvation by flight was cut off for Trompe-la-Mort, to whom all eyes
instinctively turned. The chief walked straight up to him, and commenced
operations by giving him a sharp blow on the head, so that the wig fell
off, and Collin's face was revealed in all its ugliness. There was
a terrible suggestion of strength mingled with cunning in the short,
brick-red cro