M. Moche continued his explanations: “You can fancy, when he’s got that between his jaws, how the beggar will kick and dance like a cat on hot bricks; but he won’t be able to articulate one word, and to make the fake more lifelike still, we’ll take care to soap the rubber ball a bit beforehand. Coming in contact with the saliva, the soap will lather, and I bet you a pint of red our friend, what with his wild contortions and the froth all over his snout, will look for all the world like a man in a fit. The cleverest doctor would be deceived. It’ll only be left then to get him packed into a cab, and as it so happens, the cab we shall pop him into will belong to one of our pals ... While I’m busy about him, you, Paulet must be telling the crowd helping us to get him in—you may be sure the crowd will help us—how grieved you are at the occurrence. You must cry in a big voice: ‘Oh! my poor dear friend ... what a calamity ... such a nice fellow, too ... to think he’s always having these attacks ... well, we’ll soon get him home now’—and so on and so forth. You’d never need worry, my boy; you may rest assured the cutest won’t suspect a thing!... I told you before, and I say so again, I’ve a sort of notion in my head that’s getting clearer and clearer ... We’re going to do great, great things, never you fear!” CHAPTER IV AN EPILEPTIC SEIZURE Towards five o’clock that afternoon a busy-looking individual was crossing the Tuileries gardens at a rapid pace. Without a moment’s hesitation, like a man accustomed to follow the same route almost every day, he strode over the Pont Solférino, then turned to the left and hurried along the Boulevard Saint-Germain. It was a man of thirty-five, on whose powerful features could be read the signs of manifold cares and anxieties, quick-eyed, alert, evidently a person of distinction, and one well known by sight to many Parisians. Not a few passers-by turned round to look after him, seeming to search their memories to find the name that belonged to the face they saw. Others again, better informed no doubt, gave a start of surprise, then bowed respectfully. The pedestrian paid scant heed to their salutations, pressing on deeply absorbed in his own thoughts, and not so much as casting a careless glance in her direction when he happened to meet or overtake a young, pretty and well dressed woman. Nevertheless, on arriving opposite the Ministry of Public Works, he halted in his rapid progress to shake cordially by the hand an old man, wearing a decoration at his buttonhole, who, despite the difference of age, saluted the younger man with a profound bow. “Good-day, Monsieur le Ministre ...” began the old gentleman, for the individual so addressed was in fact no less a person than the Minister of Justice, Monsieur Désiré Ferrand.