She suddenly paused; her eyes dilated. From red she turned livid, and in a hoarse, unnatural voice, she cried: “Toto! wretched child!”
Lecoq looked behind him, and shuddered. He understood everything. This child—not yet five years old—had stolen up behind him, and, ferreting in the pockets of his overcoat, had rifled them of their contents.
“Ah, well—yes!” exclaimed the unfortunate mother, bursting into tears. “That’s how it was. Directly the child was out of my sight, they used to take him into town. They took him into the crowded streets, and taught him to pick people’s pockets, and bring them everything he could lay his hands on. If the child was detected they were angry with him and beat him; and if he succeeded they gave him a sou to buy some sweets, and kept what he had taken.”
The luckless Toinon hid her face in her hands, and sobbed in an almost unintelligible voice: “Ah, I did not wish my little one to be a thief.”
But what this poor creature did not tell was that the man who had led the child out into the streets, to teach him to steal, was his own father, and her husband—the ruffian, Polyte Chupin. The two detectives plainly understood, however, that such was the case, and the father’s crime was so horrible, and the woman’s grief so great, that, familiar as they were with all the phases of crime, their very hearts were touched. Lecoq’s main thought, however, was to shorten this painful scene. The poor mother’s emotion was a sufficient guarantee of her sincerity.
“Listen,” said he, with affected harshness. “Two questions only, and then I will leave you. Was there a man named Gustave among the frequenters of the Poivriere?”
“No, sir, I’m quite sure there wasn’t.”
“Very well. But Lacheneur—you must know Lacheneur!”
“Yes, sir; I know him.”
The young police agent could not repress an exclamation of delight. “At last,” thought he, “I have a clue that may lead me to the truth. What kind of man is he?” he asked with intense anxiety.