The next day Madame Cardinal intended to consult Cerizet, in view of the fact that he was a clerk in the office of the justice-of-peace; but, before reaching his lair in the rue des Poules, she was met by the porter of a house in which an uncle of hers, a certain Toupillier, was living, who told her that the old man hadn’t probably two days to live, being then in the last extremity.

“Well, how do you expect me to help it?” replied the widow Cardinal.

“We count on you, my dear Madame Cardinal; we know you won’t forget the good advice we’ll give you.  Here’s the thing.  Lately, your poor uncle, not being able to stir round, has trusted me to go and collect the rents of his house, rue Notre-Dame de Nazareth, and the arrears of his dividends at the Treasury, which come to eighteen hundred francs.”

By this time the widow Cardinal’s eyes were becoming fixed instead of wandering.

“Yes, my dear,” continued Perrache, a hump-backed little concierge; “and, seeing that you are the only person who ever thinks about him, and that you come and see him sometimes, and bring him fish, perhaps he may make a bequest in your favor.  My wife, who has been nursing him for the last few days since he has been so ill, spoke to him of you, but he wouldn’t have you told about his illness.  But now, don’t you see, it is high time you should show yourself there.  It is pretty nigh two months since he has been able to attend to business.”

“You may well think, you old thief,” replied Madame Cardinal, hurrying at top speed toward the rue Honore-Chevalier, where her uncle lived in a wretched garret, “that the hair would grow on my hand before I could ever imagine that.  What! my uncle Toupillier rich! the old pauper of the church of Saint-Sulpice!”

“Ah!” returned the porter, “but he fed well.  He went to bed every night with his best friend, a big bottle of Roussillon.  My wife has tasted it, though he told us it was common stuff.  The wine-merchant in the rue des Canettes supplies it to him.”

“Don’t say a word about all this,” said the widow, when she parted from the man who had given her the information.  “I’ll take care and remember you—­if anything comes of it.”

Toupillier, former drum-major in the French Guards, had been for the two years preceding 1789 in the service of the Church as beadle of Saint-Sulpice.  The Revolution deprived him of that post, and he then dropped down into a state of abject misery.  He was even obliged to take to the profession of model, for he enjoyed, as they say, a fine physique.  When public worship was restored, he took up his beadle’s staff once more; but in 1816 he was dismissed, as much on account of his immorality as for his political opinions.  Nevertheless, he was allowed to stay about the door of the church and distribute the holy water.  Later, an unfortunate affair, which we shall presently mention, made him lose even that position; but, still finding means to keep to the sanctuary, he obtained permission to be allowed as a pauper in the porch.  At this period of life, being then seventy-two years of age, he made himself ninety-six, and began the profession of centenarian.