Poor humanity! He was evidently stark mad the day when he first had the idea of seeking employment in the Rue de Jerusalem.

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.
In spite of all this delay, it was not eight o'clock when he presented himself at the magistrate's house, begging him to excuse, on account of the importance of his business, a visit too early not to be indiscreet.
Excuses were superfluous.

M.Daburon was never disturbed by a call at eight o'clock in the morning.