The most obtuse shopkeeper is sure
that he can scent a detective at twenty paces a big man with
mustaches, and a shining felt hat, his throat imprisoned by a collar
of hair, dressed in a black, threadbare surtout, carefully buttoned
up on account of the entire absence of linen. Such is the type.
But, according to this, M. Lecoq, as he entered the dining-room at
Valfeuillu, had by no means the air of a detective. True, M. Lecoq
can assume whatever air he pleases. His friends declare that he
has a physiognomy peculiar to himself, which he resumes when he
enters his own house, and which he retains by his own fireside, with
his slippers on; but the fact is not well proved. What is certain,
is that his mobile face lends itself to strange metamorphoses; that
he moulds his features according to his will, as the sculptor moulds
clay for modelling. He changes everything, even his look.
"So," said the judge of instruction, "the prefect has sent you to me,
in case certain investigations become necessary."
"Yes, Monsieur, quite at your service."
M. Lecoq had on this day assumed a handsome wig of lank hair, of
that vague color called Paris blonde, parted on the side by a line
pretentiously fanciful; whiskers of the same color puffed out with
bad pomade, encircled a pallid face.
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