"Now, sir, I ask you how this gentleman is called, whom I alone, of all France, am ignorant of?" "Monsieur Fouché," said he, calmly. "What! Fouché, the Minister of Police?" This time, at least, my agitated looks seemed to move him, for he replied, quietly: "The same, sir. The horse has the brand of the 'Ministere' on his haunch." "And where is the Ministere?" cried I, eagerly. "In the Rue des Victoires, monsieur." "But he lives in the country, in a chateau near this very forest." "Where does he not live, monsieur? At Versailles, at St. Germain, in the Luxembourg, in the Marais, at Neuilly, the Battignolles. I have carried dispatches to him in every quarter of Paris. Ah, monsieur, what secret are you in possession of, that it was worth while to lay so subtle a trap to catch you?" This question, put in all the frank abruptness of a sudden thought, immediately revealed every thing before me. "Is it not as I have said?" resumed he, still looking at my agitated face; "is it not as I have said--monsieur is in the web of the Mouchards?" "Good heavens! is such baseness possible?" was all that I could utter. "I'll wager a piece of five francs I can read the mystery," said Jacques. "You served on Moreau's staff, or with Pichegru in Holland; you either have some of the general's letters, or you can be supposed to have them, at all events; you remember many private conversations held with him on politics; you can charge your memory with a number of strong facts; and you can, if needed, draw up a memoir of all your intercourse. I know the system well, for I was a Mouchard myself." "You a police spy, Jacques?" "Ay, sir; I was appointed without knowing what services were expected from me, or the duties of my station. Two months' trial, however, showed that I was 'incapable,' and proved that a smart sous-officier is not necessarily a scoundrel. They dismissed me as impracticable, and made me Garde de Chasse; and they were right, too. Whether I was dressed up in a snuff-brown suit, like a Bourgeois of the Rue St. Denis; whether they attired me as a farmer from the provinces, a retired maitre-de-poste, an old officer, or the conducteur of a diligence, I was always Jacques Caillon. Through every thing, wigs and beards, lace or rags, jack-boots or sabots, it was all alike; and while others could pass weeks in the Pays Latin as students, country doctors, or 'notaires de village,' I was certain to be detected by every brat that walked the streets." "What a system! And so these fellows assume every disguise?" asked I, my mind full of my late rencontre. "That they do, monsieur. There is one fellow, a Provençal by birth, has played more characters than ever did Brunet himself. I have known him as a laquais de place, a cook to an English nobleman, a letter-carrier, a flower-girl, a cornet-à-piston in the opera, and a curé from the Ardëche." "A curé from the Ardëche!" exclaimed I. "Then I am a ruined man."