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 abode.  Luck seemed for the moment to have turned in Lecoq’s favor.  At all events, when he and Father Absinthe alighted at the corner of the street, it so happened that the very first person the young detective questioned concerning the virtuous Toinon was well acquainted with her whereabouts.  The house in which she resided was pointed out, and Lecoq was instructed to go upstairs to the top floor, and knock at the door in front of him.  With such precise directions the two detectives speedily reached Madame Polyte Chupin’s abode.

This proved to be a cold and gloomy attic of medium size, windowless, but provided with a small skylight.  A straw pallet, a broken table, two chairs, and a few plain kitchen utensils constituted the sole appointments of this miserable garret.  But in spite of the occupant’s evident poverty, everything was neat and clean, and to use a forcible expression that fell from Father Absinthe, one could have eaten off the floor.

The two detectives entered, and found a woman busily engaged in making a heavy linen sack.  She was seated in the centre of the room, directly under the skylight, so that the sun’s rays might fall upon her work.  At the sight of two strangers, she half rose from her chair, surprised, and perhaps a little frightened; but when Lecoq had explained that they desired a few moments’ conversation with her, she gave up her own seat, and drawing the second chair from a corner, invited both detectives to sit down.  Lecoq complied, but Father Absinthe declared that he preferred to remain standing.

With a single glance Lecoq took an inventory of the humble abode, and, so to speak, appraised the woman.  She was short, stout, and of commonplace appearance.  Her forehead was extremely low, being crowned by a forest of coarse, black hair; while the expression of her large, black eyes, set very close together, recalled the look of patient resignation one so often detects in ill-treated and neglected animals.  Possibly, in former days, she might have possessed that fleeting attraction called the beaute du diable; but now she looked almost as old as her wretched mother-in-law.  Sorrow and privation, excessive toil and ill-treatment, had imparted to her face a livid hue, reddening her eyes and stamping deep furrows round about her temples.  Still, there was an attribute of native honesty about her which even the foul atmosphere in which she had been compelled to live had not sufficed to taint.