While they were capable of shrewd inventions, they did
not have the art to perform them well. All their oversights could,
however, be accounted for by their sudden haste, caused by the
occurrence of an unlooked-for incident. "The floors of a house
where a crime has just been committed," said a famous detective,
"burn the feet." M. Lecoq seemed exasperated, like a true artist,
before the gross, pretentious, and ridiculous work of some green
and bungling scholar.
"These are a parcel of vulgar ruffians, truly! able ones, certainly;
but they don't know their trade yet, the wretches."
M. Lecoq, indignant, ate three or four lozenges at a mouthful.
"Come, now," said Plantat, in a paternally severe tone. "Don't
let's get angry. The people have failed in address, no doubt; but
reflect that they could not, in their calculations, take account
of the craft of a man like you."
M. Lecoq, who had the vanity which all actors possess, was flattered
by the compliment, and but poorly dissimulated an expression of
pleasure.
"We must be indulgent; come now," pursued Plantat. "Besides," he
paused a moment to give more weight to what he was going to say,
"besides, you haven't seen everything yet.
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