The child had revealed his mother's character with cruel precision. What
had she told him about his father? That he was rich, and that, in case
he returned, he would give them plenty of money and fine clothes. The
woman's nature stood revealed in all its deformity. Chupin had good
cause to feel proud of his discernment--all his suppositions had
been confirmed. He had read Mouchon's character at a glance. He had
recognized him as one of those wily evil-minded men who employ their
leisure to the profit of their depravity--one of those patient,
cold-blooded hypocrites who make poverty their purveyor, and whose
passion is prodigal only in advice. "So he's paying his court to Madame
Paul," thought Chupin. "Isn't it shameful? The old villain! he might at
least give her enough to eat!"

So far his preoccupation had made him forget his wine and his cigar. He
emptied the glass at a single draught, but it proved far more difficult
to light the cigar. "Zounds! this is a non-combustible," he growled.
"When I arrive at smoking ten sous cigars, I sha'n't come here to buy
them."

However, with the help of several matches and a great deal of drawing,
he had almost succeeded, when the door opened, and Madame Paul
reappeared with a letter in her hand. She seemed greatly agitated; her
anxiety was unmistakable. "I can't decide," she was saying to Mouchon,
whose figure Chupin could only dimly distinguish in the darkness. "No,
I can't. If I send this letter, I must forever renounce all hope of my
husband's return. Whatever happens, he will never forgive me."

"He can't treat you worse than he does now, at all events," replied the
old gentleman. "Besides, a gloved cat has never caught a mouse yet."

"He'll hate me."

"The man who wants his dog to love him, beats it; and, besides, when the
wine is drawn, one must drink it."

This singular logic seemed to decide her. She handed the letter to
Chupin, and drawing a franc from her pocket she offered it to him. "This
is for your trouble," she said.

He involuntarily held out his hand to take the money, but quickly
withdrew it, exclaiming: "No, thank you; keep it. I've been paid
already." And, thereupon, he left the shop.

Chupin's mother--his poor good mother, as he called her--would certainly
have felt proud and delighted at her son's disinterestedness. That
very morning, he had refused the ten francs a day that M. Fortunat had
offered him, and this evening he declined the twenty sous pr