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.
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