The priest gazed on the person addressing him with a long and searching gaze⁠—there even seemed a disposition on his part to court a similar scrutiny on the part of the innkeeper; then, observing in the countenance of the latter no other expression than extreme surprise at his own want of attention to an inquiry so courteously worded, he deemed it as well to terminate this dumb show, and therefore said, speaking with a strong Italian accent, “You are, I presume, M. Caderousse?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the host, even more surprised at the question than he had been by the silence which had preceded it; “I am Gaspard Caderousse, at your service.”

“Gaspard Caderousse,” rejoined the priest. “Yes⁠—Christian and surname are the same. You formerly lived, I believe in the Allées de Meilhan, on the fourth floor?”

“I did.”

“And you followed the business of a tailor?”