cret; but the place which you offer me near you--in your employ--"

"That frightens you, or, at least, it makes you uneasy," said Corentin,
quickly. "Before you have even considered the thing the word scares you,
does it? The police! _Police_! you are afraid to encounter the terrible
prejudice that brands it on the brow."

"Certainly," said la Peyrade, "it is a necessary institution; but I do
not think that it is always calumniated. If the business of those who
manage it is honorable why do they conceal themselves so carefully?"

"Because all that threatens society, which it is the mission of the
police to repress," replied Corentin, "is plotted and prepared in
hiding. Do thieves and conspirators put upon their hats, 'I am Guillot,
the shepherd of this flock'? And when we are after them must we ring a
bell to let them know we are coming?"

"Monsieur," said la Peyrade, "when a sentiment is universal it ceases
to be a prejudice, it becomes an opinion; and this opinion ought to be a
law to every man who desires to keep his own esteem and that of others."

"And when you robbed that notary to enrich the Thuilliers for your own
advantage," said Corentin, "did you keep your own esteem and that of the
Council of barristers? And who knows, monsieur, if in your life there
are not still blacker actions than that? I am a more honorable man than
you, because, outside of my functions, I have not one doubtful act upon
my conscience; and when the opportunity for _good_ has been presented
to me I have done it--always and everywhere. Do you think that the
guardianship of that poor insane girl in my home has been all roses? But
she was the daughter of my old friend, your uncle, and when, feeling
the years creep on me, I propose to you, between sacks of money, to fit
yourself to take my place--"

"What!" cried la Peyrade, "is that girl my uncle's daughter?"

"Yes; the girl I wish you to marry is the daughter of your uncle
Peyrade,--for he democratized his name,--or, if you like it better,
she was the daughter of Pere Canquoelle, a name he took from the little
estate on which your father lived and starved with eleven children. You
see, in spite of the secrecy your uncle always kept about his family,
that I know all about it. Do you suppose that before selecting you as
your cousin's husband I had not obtained every possible information
about you? And what I have learned need not make you quite so
supercilious to the police. Besides, as