uld not indicate
the precise number, but he described the house and gave them some
information concerning its occupants.

The Widow Chupin's daughter-in-law, a native of Auvergne, had been
bitterly punished for preferring a rakish Parisian ragamuffin to one of
the grimy charcoal-burners of the Puy de Dome. She was hardly more than
twelve years of age when she first came to Paris and obtained employment
in a large factory. After ten years' privation and constant toil, she
had managed to amass, sou by sou, the sum of three thousand francs. Then
her evil genius threw Polyte Chupin across her path. She fell in love
with this dissipated, selfish rascal; and he married her for the sake of
her little hoard.

As long as the money lasted, that is, for some three or four months,
matters went on pleasantly enough. But as soon as the last franc had
been spent, Polyte left his wife, and complacently resumed his former
life of idleness, thieving, and debauchery. When at times he returned
home, it was merely with the view of robbing his wife of what little
money she might have saved in the mean while; and periodically she
uncomplainingly allowed him to despoil her of the last penny of her
earnings.

Horrible to relate, this unworthy rascal even tried to trade on her good
looks. Here, however, he met with a strenuous resistance--a resistance
which excited not merely his own ire, but also the hatred of the
villain's mother--that old hag, the Widow Chupin. The result was that
Polyte's wife was subjected to such incessant cruelty and persecution
that one night she was forced to fly with only the rags that covered
her. The Chupins--mother and son--believed, perhaps, that starvation
would effect what their horrible threats and insidious counsel had
failed to accomplish. Their shameful expectations were not, however,
gratified.

In mentioning these facts to Lecoq, the commissary's secretary added
that they had become widely known, and that the unfortunate creature's
force of character had won for her general respect. Among those she
frequented, moreover, she was known by the nickname of "Toinon the
Virtuous"--a rather vulgar but, at all events, sincere tribute to her
worth.

Grateful for this information, Lecoq returned to the cab. The Rue de la
Butte-aux-Cailles, whither Papillon was now directed to drive, proved to
be very unlike the Boulevard Malesherbes, and one brief glance sufficed
to show that opulence had not here fixed its ab