"That remains to be proved."
"How can I be distrusted—have I not given proofs? Was it I or was it not who, at the time, enabled you to apprehend Ambroise Martial, one of the most dangerous malefactors in Paris, in the very fact?"
"All this is very fine and good; but Ambroise was warned they were going to arrest him, and if I had not been earlier than the hour you told me of, he would have escaped."
"Do you think me capable, M. Narcisse, of having secretly told him of your coming?"
"I only know that I received from the scoundrel a pistol-shot aimed full at me, but which, fortunately, only grazed my arm."
"Why, to be sure, M. Narcisse, in your profession you must be occasionally exposed to such mistakes!"
"Ah, you call these mistakes, eh?"
"Certainly; for, no doubt, the wicked fellow intended to lodge the ball in your body."
"In the arm, body, or head, no matter, I don't complain of that; every profession has its disagreeables."
"And its pleasures, too, M. Narcisse, and its pleasures. For instance, when a man as cunning, as skilful, and as courageous as you, has been for a long time on the track of a gang of villains, whom he follows from quarter to quarter, from lurking-place to lurking-place, with a good bloodhound like your poor servant to command, Bras-Rouge, and, finally, marks them down and comes upon them in a trap from which not one of them can escape, why, then, you must say, M. Narcisse, that there is great pleasure in it,—the joy of a sportsman,—not including the service he renders to justice!" added the host of the Bleeding Heart, with a grave air.