A noble hobby, truly, for a man of
his age, a good quiet citizen of Paris, rich, and esteemed by all! And
to think that he had been proud of his exploits, that he had boasted of
his cunning, that he had plumed himself on his keenness of scent, that
he had been flattered by that ridiculous sobriquet, "Tirauclair." Old
fool! What could he hope to gain from that bloodhound calling? All sorts
of annoyance, the contempt of the world, without counting the danger of
contributing to the conviction of an innocent man. Why had he not taken
warning by the little tailor's case.
Recalling his few satisfactions of the past, and comparing them with his
present anguish, he resolved that he would have no more to do with it.
Albert once saved, he would seek some less dangerous amusement, and one
more generally appreciated. He would break the connection of which he
was ashamed, and the police and justice might get on the best they could
without him.
At last the day, which he had awaited with feverish impatience, dawned.
To pass the time, he dressed himself slowly, with much care, trying to
occupy his mind with needless details, and to deceive himself as to the
time by looking constantly at the clock, to see if it had not stopped.
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