“What if I should tell you,” responded Carbonnet, “that he has not drunk enough? For if he had drunk more, he would have fallen down at the wineseller’s. Good! see him stumble up against the lady in black.” The two speakers, who had not seen the philosopher, continued to bar the way. The last; with the customary amenity of his manners, hesitated to disturb them. Mechanically he turned his eyes in the direction of the drunken man. He was an unfortunate fellow in rags; his head was covered with a high hat weakened by innumerable falls; his feet danced in his wornout boots. He had just knocked against a person in deep mourning who was standing at the angle of the Rue Guy de la Brosse and the Rue Linné. Without doubt she was looking at some one on the side of this latter street, some one in whom she was interested, for she did not turn at once. The man in rags, with the persistency of drunken people, was excusing himself to this woman, who then first became aware of his presence. She drew back with a gesture of disgust. The drunken man became angry, and supporting himself against the wall, hurled at her some offensive language; a crowd of children soon collected around him. The _commissionaire_ began to laugh, and so did Carbonnet. Then turning around to look for the cock, muttering: “Where has he gone to crow, the runaway?” he saw Adrien Sixte, behind whom Ferdinand had taken refuge, and who was also regarding the scene between the drunken man and the unknown lady. “Ah! Monsieur Sixte,” said the _concierge_, “that lady in black has been twice to ask for you in the last quarter of an hour. She said that you were expecting her.” “Bring her here,” responded the savant. “It is the mother,” thought he. His first impulse was to go in at once, then a kind of timidity came over him, and he remained at the door while the _concierge_, followed by the cock, went over to the group collected on the corner of the street. The woman no sooner heard Carbonnet’s words than she turned toward the philosopher’s house, leaving Ferdinand’s master to scold the drunkard. The philosopher, instinctively continuing his reasoning, instantly noticed a singular resemblance between the mysterious person and the young man about whom he had been questioned. There were the same bright eyes, in a very pale face, and the same cast of features. There was not the least doubt, and immediately the implacable psychologist, curious only about a case to be studied, gave place to the awkward, simple-minded man, unskillful in practical life, embarrassed by his long body and not knowing how to say the first word. Mme. Greslon, for it was she, relieved him by saying: “I am, monsieur, the person who wrote to you yesterday.” “Very much honored, madame,” stammered the philosopher, “I regret that I was not at home earlier. But your letter said four o’clock. And then I have just come from the Judge of Instruction, where I was summoned to testify in the case of this unhappy child.”