“If you have accurately recorded the account of myself I gave you at first,” said Jacques Collin, “you can read it through again. I cannot alter the facts. I never went to the woman’s house; how should I know who her cook was? The persons of whom you speak are utterly unknown to me.” “Notwithstanding your denial, we shall proceed to confront you with persons who may succeed in diminishing your assurance” “A man who has been three times shot is used to anything,” replied Jacques Collin meekly. Camusot proceeded to examine the seized papers while awaiting the return of the famous Bibi-Lupin, whose expedition was amazing; for at half-past eleven, the inquiry having begun at ten o’clock, the usher came in to inform the judge in an undertone of Bibi-Lupin’s arrival. “Show him in,” replied M. Camusot. Bibi-Lupin, who had been expected to exclaim, “It is he,” as he came in, stood puzzled. He did not recognize his man in a face pitted with smallpox. This hesitancy startled the magistrate. “It is his build, his height,” said the agent. “Oh! yes, it is you, Jacques Collin!” he went on, as he examined his eyes, forehead, and ears. “There are some things which no disguise can alter.... Certainly it is he, Monsieur Camusot. Jacques has the scar of a cut on his left arm. Take off his coat, and you will see...” Jacques Collin was again obliged to take off his coat; Bibi-Lupin turned up his sleeve and showed the scar he had spoken of. “It is the scar of a bullet,” replied Don Carlos Herrera. “Here are several more.” “Ah! It is certainly his voice,” cried Bibi-Lupin. “Your certainty,” said Camusot, “is merely an opinion; it is not proof.” “I know that,” said Bibi-Lupin with deference. “But I will bring witnesses. One of the boarders from the Maison Vauquer is here already,” said he, with an eye on Collin. But the prisoner’s set, calm face did not move a muscle. “Show the person in,” said Camusot roughly, his dissatisfaction betraying itself in spite of his seeming indifference. This irritation was not lost on Jacques Collin, who had not counted on the judge’s sympathy, and sat lost in apathy, produced by his deep meditations in the effort to guess what the cause could be. The usher now showed in Madame Poiret. At this unexpected appearance the prisoner had a slight shiver, but his trepidation was not remarked by Camusot, who seemed to have made up his mind. “What is your name?” asked he, proceeding to carry out the formalities introductory to all depositions and examinations. Madame Poiret, a little old woman as white and wrinkled as a sweetbread, dressed in a dark-blue silk gown, gave her name as Christine Michelle Michonneau, wife of one Poiret, and her age as fifty-one years, said that she was born in Paris, lived in the Rue des Poules at the corner of the Rue des Postes, and that her business was that of lodging-house keeper. “In 1818 and 1819,” said the judge, “you lived, madame, in a boarding-house kept by a Madame Vauquer?”