m street to
street; ascended staircase after staircase till his limbs ached; called
at the doors of scores of seamstresses, but no hump-backed damsel
appeared;--all were as straight as arrows! Not more ardently, he says,
did Don Quixote pant for Dulcinea, than he for Humpina. Days rolled on
unsuccessfully: he began to despair. At length he resolved to change his
measures, and, instead of clambering up flights of steps, to station
himself near the stand of a gossiping milk-woman, and watch her
customers. Numbers of women came to buy their milk in the morning, but
not one adorned with the delectable hump. At length, in the evening, he
caught sight of one whose back had the desired ornament. He followed her
from the milk-woman's to the grocer's, from the grocer's to the
tripe-shop, and, finally, to her home; but when he got there, no yellow
curtains were to be seen. What was to be done? He resolved to speak to
her at all events; so, feigning himself to be a deserted husband, he
inquired of her whether Fossard and his mistress were occupants of any
part of the house? Her reply was disheartening:--they had quitted their
lodgings, and were gone, she knew not where. Still, the case did not
appear hopeless. He had employed a porter to carry his goods, and might
not that porter be found? A new search was requisite, and it terminated
successfully, by his tracing Fossard to a vintner's. Considering, then,
that it was advisable to have the vintner on his side, he called on him
in his usual dress, and informed him, from the police, that his lodgers
meditated robbing him. He and his wife were in consternation at the
intelligence; but Vidocq having pacified them, arranged his plans. The
grand difficulty to be overcome, arose from Fossard's always carrying a
loaded pistol in his hand, and which, they knew from his character, he
would assuredly discharge at the first man that laid hands on him. Here
Vidocq must tell his own tale, we premising, that Fossard's mistress
styled herself Madame Hazard.--

"At an early hour, on the 29th of December, I betook myself to
my station. It was desperately cold; the watch was a protracted
one, and the more painful as we had no fire. Motionless,
however, and my eyes fixed against a small hole in the shutter,
I kept my post. At last, about three o'clock, he went out. I
followed gladly, and recognised him; for, up to that period, I
had my doubts. Certain now of his iden