Yes, I the detective, the terror of thieves and murderers,
who have divulged the combinations of all the sharpers of all the
nations, who for ten years have swum amid vice and crime; who wash
the dirty linen of all the corruptions, who have measured the depths
of human infamy; I who know all, who have seen and heard all; I,
Lecoq, am before her, more simple and credulous than an infant. She
deceives me--I see it--and she proves that I have seen wrongly.
She lies--I know it, I prove it to her--and I believe her. It is
because this is one of those passions," he added, in a low,
mournful tone, "that age, far from extinguishing, only fans, and to
which the consciousness of shame and powerlessness adds fire. One
loves, and the certainty that he cannot be loved in return is one
of those griefs which you must have felt to know its depth. In a
moment of reason, one sees and judges himself; he says, no, it's
impossible, she is almost a child, I almost an old man. He says
this--but always, in the heart, more potent than reason, than will,
than experience, a ray of hope remains, and he says to himself,
'who knows--perhaps!' He awaits, what--a miracle? There are none,
nowadays.
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