“One of the sluts at the Chaumiere,” said Josepha.

“So, madame,” said the old woman.  “So Idamore, his name is Idamore, leastways that is what he calls himself, for his real name is Chardin —­Idamore fancied that your uncle had a deal more money than he owned to, and he managed to send his sister Elodie—­and that was a stage name he gave her—­to send her to be a workwoman at our place, without my daughter’s knowing who she was; and, gracious goodness! but that girl turned the whole place topsy-turvy; she got all those poor girls into mischief—­impossible to whitewash them, saving your presence——­

“And she was so sharp, she won over poor old Thoul, and took him away, and we don’t know where, and left us in a pretty fix, with a lot of bills coming in.  To this day as ever is we have not been able to settle up; but my daughter, who knows all about such things, keeps an eye on them as they fall due.—­Then, when Idamore saw he had got hold of the old man, through his sister, you understand, he threw over my daughter, and now he has got hold of a little actress at the Funambules.—­And that was how my daughter came to get married, as you will see—­”

“But you must know where the mattress-picker lives?” said Josepha.

“What! old Chardin?  As if he lived anywhere at all!—­He is drunk by six in the morning; he makes a mattress once a month; he hangs about the wineshops all day; he plays at pools—­”

“He plays at pools?” said Josepha.

“You do not understand, madame, pools of billiards, I mean, and he wins three or four a day, and then he drinks.”

“Water out of the pools, I suppose?” said Josepha.  “But if Idamore haunts the Boulevard, by inquiring through my friend Vraulard, we could find him.”

“I don’t know, madame; all this was six months ago.  Idamore was one of the sort who are bound to find their way into the police courts, and from that to Melun—­and the—­who knows—?”

“To the prison yard!” said Josepha.

“Well, madame, you know everything,” said the old woman, smiling.  “Well, if my girl had never known that scamp, she would now be—­Still, she was in luck, all the same, you will say, for Monsieur Grenouville fell so much in love with her that he married her—­”

“And what brought that about?”

“Olympe was desperate, madame.  When she found herself left in the lurch for that little actress—­and she took a rod out of pickle for her, I can tell you; my word, but she gave her a dressing!—­and when she had lost poor old Thoul, who worshiped her, she would have nothing more to say to the men.  ’Wever, Monsieur Grenouville, who had been dealing largely with us—­to the tune of two hundred embroidered China-crape shawls every quarter—­he wanted to console her; but whether or no, she would not listen to anything without the mayor and the priest.  ‘I mean to be respectable,’ said she, ‘or perish!’ and she stuck to it.  Monsieur Grenouville consented to marry her, on condition of her giving us all up, and we agreed—­”