“No more jokes! Your name?”
“Isidore Beautrelet.”
“Your occupation?”
“Sixth-form pupil at the Lycée Janson-de-Sailly.”
M. Filleul opened a pair of startled eyes.
“What are you talking about? Sixth-form pupil—”
“At the Lycée Janson, Rue de la Pompe, number—”
“Oh, look here,” exclaimed M. Filleul, “you’re trying to take me in! This won’t do, you know; a joke can go too far!”
“I must say, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, that your astonishment surprises me. What is there to prevent my being a sixth-form pupil at the Lycée Janson? My beard, perhaps? Set your mind at ease: my beard is false!”
Isidore Beautrelet pulled off the few curls that adorned his chin, and his beardless face appeared still younger and pinker, a genuine schoolboy’s face. And, with a laugh like a child’s, revealing his white teeth: