“My dear friend,” said he, smiling, “who is there in all Paris, from Montmartre to St. Denis, believes, or disbelieves, any one thing in the times we live in? Have we not trusted so implicitly for years past to the light of our reason that we have actually injured our eyesight with ils brilliancy. Little reproach, indeed, to our minds, when our very senses seem to mislead us; when one sees the people who enter the Tuileries now with embroidered coats, who in our father's days never came nearer to it than the Place de Carrousel. _Hélas!_ it's no time for incredulity, that's certain. But to conclude,” said he, turning to the paper once more: “'The _commissaires de police_ throughout Paris have received orders to spare no effort to unravel the mystery and detect the other parties in this unhappy affair.' Military tribunal; prisoners on parole; rights of hospitality; honor of France; and the old peroration,--the usual compliment on the wisdom which presides over every department of state. How weary I do become of all this! Let your barber puff his dye for the whiskers, or your bootmaker the incomparable effulgence of his blacking,--the thing is in keeping, no one objects to it. I don't find fault with my old friend, Pigault Lebrun, if he now and then plays the critic on himself, and shows the world the beauties they neglectfully slurred over. But, Burke, have you ever seen a _bureau de police?_” “Never; and I have the greatest curiosity to do so.” “Come, then, I 'll be your guide. The _commissaire_ of this quarter has a very extended jurisdiction, stretching away towards the Bois de Boulogne, and if there be anything in this report, he is certain to know it; and assuredly, no other topic will be talked of till to-morrow evening, for it's not Opera night, and Talma does not play either.” I willingly accepted this proposition; and when our breakfast was over, we mounted our horses, and set out for the place in question.