admirable mixture of magnificence and good
taste. "I have something for your private ear,
sir," said the Count. "Will you give orders that
no one must be allowed to disturb us?"
Monsieur Hérault gave the orders.  "May I inquire,
Count, what your business is?" he asked, when
the door was closed. "To earn the reward you
offer for taking Poulailler," answered the Count.
"I am Poulailler."  Before Monsieur Hérault
could open his lips, the robber produced a
pretty little dagger and some rose-coloured silk
cord. "The point of this dagger is poisoned,"
he observed; " and one scratch with it, my dear
sir, would be the death of you." With these
words, Poulailler gagged the lieutenant of
police, bound him to his chair with the rose-
coloured cord, and lightened his writing-desk of
one thousand pistoles. "I'll take money down,
instead of taking the place in the office which
you kindly offer,"  said Poulailler. "Don't
trouble yourself to see me to the door. Good
morning!"

A few weeks later, while Monsieur Hérault
was still the popular subject of ridicule throughout
Paris, business took Poulailler on the road
to Lille and Cambrai. The only inside passenger
in the coach besides himself was the venerable
Dean Potter, of Brussels. They fell into talk
on the one interesting subject of the time—
not the weather, but Poulailler. "It's a
disgrace, sir, to the police," said the Dean, "that
such a miscreant is still at large. I shall be
returning to Paris, by this road, in ten days' time,
and I shall call on Monsieur Hérault, to suggest
a plan of my own for catching the scoundrel."
"May I ask what it is," said Poulailler. "Excuse
me," replied the Dean; "you are a stranger,
sir,—and, moreover, I wish to keep the merit of
suggesting the plan to myself."  "Do you think
the lieutenant of police will see you," asked
Poulailler; "he is not accessible to strangers,
since the miscreant you speak of played him
that trick at his own breakfast-table."  "He
will see Dean Potter, of Brussels," was the
reply, delivered with the slightest possible tinge
of offended dignity. "Oh, unquestionably!"
said Poulailler,—"pray pardon me."  "Willingly,
sir,"  said the Dean—and the conversation
flowed into other channels.

Nine days later the wounded pride of Monsieur
Hérault was soothed by a very remarkable
letter. It was signed by one of Poulailler's
band, who offered himself as King's evidence, in
the hope of obtaining a pardon. The letter
stated, that the venerable Dean Potter had been
waylaid and murdered by Poulailler, and that
the robber, with his customary audacity, was
about to re-enter Paris by the Lisle coach,
the next day, disguised in the Dean's own
clothes, and furnished with the Dean's own
papers. Monsieur Hérault took his precautions
without losing a moment. Picked men were
stationed, with their orders, at the barrier
through which the coach must pass to enter
Paris; while the lieutenant of police waited at
his office, in the company of two French gentlemen
who could speak to the Dean's identity, in
the event of Poulailler's impudently persisting
in the assumption of his victim's name. At the
appointed hour, the coach appeared, and out of
it got a man in the Dean's costume. He was
arrested in spite of his protestations; the papers
of the murdered Potter were found on him, and
he was dragged off to the police office in triumph.
The door opened, and the posse comitatus
entered with the prisoner. Instantly the two
witnesses burst out with a cry of recognition,
and turned indignantly on the lieutenant of
police. "Gracious Heaven, sir, what have you
done!"  they exclaimed in horror;  "this is not
Poulailler—here is our venerable friend; here is
the Dean himself!  At the same moment, a
servant entered with a letter. "Dean Potter.
To the care of Monsieur Hérault, Lieutenant of
Police." The letter was expressed in these
words: " Venerable sir,—Profit by the lesson
I have given you. Be a Christian for the future,
and never again try to injure a man unless he
tries to injure you. Entirely yours, Poulailler."

These feats of cool audacity were matched
by others, in which his generosity to the sex
asserted itself as magnanimously as ever.

Hearing, one day, that large sums of money
were kept in the house of a great lady, one
Madame de Brienne, whose door was guarded,
in anticipation of a visit from the famous thief,
by a porter of approved trustworthiness and
courage, Poulailler undertook to rob her, in spite
of her precautions, and succeeded. With a stout
pair of leather straps and buckles in his pocket,
and with two of his band, disguised as a coachman
and footman, he followed Madame de
Brienne one night to the theatre. Just before
the close of the performance, the lady's coachman
and footman were tempted away for five
minutes by Poulailler's disguised subordinates
to have a glass of wine. No attempt was made
to detain them, or to drug their liquor. But, in
their absence, Poulailler had slipped under the
carriage, had hung his leather straps round the
pole—one to hold by, and one to support his
feet—and, with these simple preparations, was
now ready to wait for events. Madame de
Brienne entered the carriage—the footman got
up behind—Poulailler hung himself horizontally
under the pole, and was driven home with them,
under those singular circumstances. He was
strong enough to keep his position, after the
carriage had been taken into the coach-house; and
he only left it when the doors were locked for the
night. Provided with food beforehand, he waited
patiently, hidden in the coach-house, for two
days and nights, watching his opportunity of
getting into Madame de Brienne's boudoir.

On the third night, the lady went to a grand
ball—the servants relaxed in their vigilance
while her back was turned—and Poulailler
slipped into the room. He found two thousand
louis d'ors, which was nothing like the sum he
expected; and a pocket-book, which he took
away with him to open at home. It contained
some stock-warrants for a comparatively trifling
amount. Poulailler was far too well off to care
about taking them; and far too polite, where a