his, Monsieur de la Reynie," said he; "this dagger is poisoned!"

"Is it possible?" said M. de la Reynie.

"A prick of it would do for any man," said the Marquess.

"You don't say so!" said M. de la Reynie.

"I do, though; and, what is more," says the Marquess, in a terrible
voice, "if you do not instantly lay yourself flat on the ground, with
your face towards it, and your hands crossed over your back, or if
you make the slightest noise or cry, I will stick this poisoned dagger
between your ribs, as sure as my name is Cartouche?"

At the sound of this dreadful name, M. de la Reynie sunk incontinently
down on his stomach, and submitted to be carefully gagged and corded;
after which Monsieur Cartouche laid his hands upon all the money which
was kept in the lieutenant's cabinet. Alas! and alas! many a stout
bailiff, and many an honest fellow of a spy, went, for that day, without
his pay and his victuals.

There is a story that Cartouche once took the diligence to Lille, and
found in it a certain Abbe Potter, who was full of indignation against
this monster of a Cartouche, and said that when he went back to Paris,
which he proposed to do in about a fortnight, he should give the
lieutenant of police some information, which would infallibly lead
to the scoundrel's capture. But poor Potter was disappointed in his
designs; for, before he could fulfil them, he was made the victim of
Cartouche's cruelty.

A letter came to the lieutenant of police, to state that Cartouche had
travelled to Lille, in company with the Abbe de Potter, of that town;
that, on the reverend gentleman's return towards Paris, Cartouche had
waylaid him, murdered him, taken his papers, and would come to Paris
himself, bearing the name and clothes of the unfortunate Abbe, by the
Lille coach, on such a day. The Lille coach arrived, was surrounded
by police agents; the monster Cartouche was there, sure enough, in the
Abbe's guise. He was seized, bound, flung into prison, brought out to be
examined, and, on examination, found to be no other than the Abbe Potter
himself! It is pleasant to read thus of the relaxations of great men,
and find them condescending to joke like the meanest of us.

Another diligence adventure is recounted of the famous Cartouche. It
happened that he met, in the coach, a young and lovely lady, clad in
widow's weeds, and bound to Paris, with a couple of servants. The poor
thing was the widow of a rich old gentleman of Marseilles, a