"The plan
isn't hers," said Chupin to himself, after a moment's reflection.
"It's probably the work of that stout old gentleman."
There was a means of verifying his suspicions, for on returning
into the adjoining room, Madame Paul had not taken her son with
her. He was still sitting on the muddy floor of the shop, playing
with his dilapidated horse. Chupin called him. "Come here, my
little fellow," said he.
The child rose, and timidly approached, his eyes dilating with
distrust and astonishment. The poor boy's repulsive uncleanliness
was a terrible charge against the mother. Did she no longer love
her own offspring? The untidiness of sorrow and poverty has its
bounds. A long time must have passed since the child's face and
hands had been washed, and his soiled clothes were literally
falling to rags. Still, he was a handsome little fellow, and
seemed fairly intelligent, in spite of his bashfulness. He was
very light-haired, and in features he was extremely like M. de
Coralth. Chupin took him on his knees, and, after looking to see
if the door communicating with the inner room were securely
closed, he asked: "What's your name, little chap?"
"Paul."
"Do you know your father?"
"No."
"Doesn't your mother ever talk to you about him?"
"Oh, yes!"
"And what does she say?"
"That he's rich--very rich."
"And what else?"
The child did not reply; perhaps his mother had forbidden him to
say anything on the subject--perhaps that instinct which precedes
intelligence, just as the dawn precedes daylight, warned him to be
prudent with a stranger.
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