One little circumstance attracted both detectives'
attention. If the mother was attired in an old, thin, faded calico
dress, the child was warmly clad in stout woolen material.
"Madame, you have doubtless heard of a dreadful crime, committed in your
mother-in-law's establishment," began Lecoq in a soft voice.
"Alas! yes, sir," replied Toinon the Virtuous, quickly adding: "But my
husband could not have been implicated in it, since he is in prison."
Did not this objection, forestalling, as it were, suspicion, betray the
most horrible apprehensions?
"Yes, I am aware of that," replied Lecoq. "Polyte was arrested a
fortnight ago--"
"Yes, and very unjustly, sir," replied the neglected wife. "He was led
astray by his companions, wicked, desperate men. He is so weak when he
has taken a glass of wine that they can do whatever they like with him.
If he were only left to himself he would not harm a child. You have only
to look at him--"
As she spoke, the virtuous Toinon turned her red and swollen eyes to
a miserable photograph hanging against the wall. This blotchy smudge
portrayed an exceedingly ugly, dissipated-looking young man, afflicted
with a terrible squint, and whose repulsive mouth was partially
concealed by a faint mustache. This rake of the barrieres was Polyte
Chupin. And yet despite his unprepossessing aspect there was no
mistaking the fact that this unfortunate woman loved him--had always
loved him; besides, he was her husband.
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