"You may suppose that in a town where everything is classified, known,
pigeon-holed, ticketed, and numbered, as in Besancon, Albert Savaron
was received without hesitation by the lawyers of the town. They were
satisfied to say, 'Here is a man who does not know his Besancon. Who
the devil can have sent him here? What can he hope to do? Sending his
card to the Judges instead of calling in person! What a blunder!' And
so, three days after, Savaron had ceased to exist. He took as his
servant old Monsieur Galard's man--Galard being dead--Jerome, who can
cook a little. Albert Savaron was all the more completely forgotten,
because no one had seen him or met him anywhere."

"Then, does he not go to mass?" asked Madame de Chavoncourt.

"He goes on Sundays to Saint-Pierre, but to the early service at eight
in the morning. He rises every night between one and two in the
morning, works till eight, has his breakfast, and then goes on
working. He walks in his garden, going round fifty, or perhaps sixty
times; then he goes in, dines, and goes to bed between six and seven."

"How did you learn all that?" Madame de Chavoncourt asked Monsieur de
Soulas.

"In the first place, madame, I live in the Rue Neuve, at the corner of
the Rue du Perron; I look out on the house where this mysterious
personage lodges; then, of course, there are communications between my
tiger and Jerome."

"And you gossip with Babylas?"