“Good-morning, M. le Moyne,” he cried, as I entered. “Take a chair, if you please, and pardon me for one moment,” and he resumed the examination of a great number of papers, passing from one to another with incredible rapidity, affixing his signature here, erasing a line there, and laying a few to one side for further consideration. I had opportunity to examine his face more attentively than had been possible the day before, and, the first impression produced by its disfigurement past, I found it more and more admirable. The fame of the Comte d’Argenson had penetrated to the four corners of France, until Le Dammé, as he was called because of his formidable countenance, had become a word to frighten children with. A thousand stories were told of him, how he commenced his audiences at three o’clock in the morning and worked all day, dictating to four secretaries at once; making his rounds at night in a carriage in which there was a desk lighted by candles, so that no single moment might be lost; facing street riots with a cool courage which made him master of the mob; striking home with an absolute disregard of form and precedent, overcoming many obstacles, and achieving his object before another man could have planned the attack. Certain it was that he had brought order out of chaos, suppressed crime with a rigid hand, and developed a system of espionage so complete that there were few in Paris concerning whose habits and conduct from day to day he could not be fully informed, should he choose to inquire about them. Clothed with an authority almost absolute, he had yet strength to use it gently and wisely; above corruption, discreet, ever leaning towards the merciful; a thorough gentleman, with whom any secret was safe, so that it did not interfere with the law or with the State--a fact which a thousand women knew by experience and thanked God for--it is little wonder that I gazed at him with interest and attention. “Ah, M. le Moyne,” he said at last, looking up from a paper which he held in his hand, “here is a report which will interest you. The name of the concierge, it seems, is Mère Fouchon--at least, that is the only name she has ever been known to have. She secured her place as concierge in the Rue du Chantre nearly five years ago, by means of recommendations which my agents have since discovered were forged. Of her previous history we have as yet been able to ascertain nothing, but we will in time. During the five years she was concierge she made no friends--none, at least, to whom she told anything of her past life. She seems to have emerged from the darkness, and the fact that so little is known concerning her is in itself suspicious. No one, especially no woman, covers up her past unless there is something to conceal. Decidedly, I am interested in Mère Fouchon.” “And you have not succeeded in finding her, I suppose, Monsieur?” I inquired.