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Updated: April 30, 2025
Michonneau, and so artlessly revealed that he was in two minds whether to go or stay, that the boarders, in their joy at being quit of Mlle. Michonneau, burst out laughing at the sight of him. "Hist! st! st! Poiret," shouted the painter. "Hallo! I say, Poiret, hallo!" The employe from the Museum began to sing: "Partant pour la Syrie, Le jeune et beau Dunois..."
Michonneau had very nearly made up her mind to warn the convict and to throw herself on his generosity, with the idea of making a better bargain for herself by helping him to escape that night; but as it was, she went out escorted by Poiret in search of the famous chief of detectives in the Petite Rue Saint-Anne, still thinking that it was the district superintendent one Gondureau with whom she had to do.
Madame Poiret, a little old woman as white and wrinkled as a sweetbread, dressed in a dark-blue silk gown, gave her name as Christine Michelle Michonneau, wife of one Poiret, and her age as fifty-one years, said that she was born in Paris, lived in the Rue des Poules at the corner of the Rue des Postes, and that her business was that of lodging-house keeper.
"They have been making eyes at each other in a heartrending way for a week past." "Yes," he answered. "So she was found guilty." "Who?" "Mme. Morin." "I am talking about Mlle. Victorine," said Mlle, Michonneau, as she entered Poiret's room with an absent air, "and you answer, 'Mme. Morin. Who may Mme. Morin be?" "What can Mlle. Victorine be guilty of?" demanded Poiret.
Michonneau, that elderly young lady, screened her weak eyes from the daylight by a soiled green silk shade with a rim of brass, an object fit to scare away the Angel of Pity himself. Her shawl, with its scanty, draggled fringe, might have covered a skeleton, so meagre and angular was the form beneath it. Yet she must have been pretty and shapely once.
Michonneau uttered no complaint, though breakfast was delayed. As for Victorine and Mme. Couture, they also lay late. Vautrin went out before eight o'clock, and only came back just as breakfast was ready. Nobody protested, therefore, when Sylvie and Christophe went up at a quarter past eleven, knocked at all the doors, and announced that breakfast was waiting.
Michonneau went on, "make it three thousand francs if he is Trompe-la-Mort, and nothing at all if he is an ordinary man." "Done!" said Gondureau, "but on the condition that the thing is settled to-morrow." "Not quite so soon, my dear sir; I must consult my confessor first." "You are a sly one," said the detective as he rose to his feet. "Good-bye till to-morrow, then.
Besides, Collin is not the sort of fellow to play such a trick; he would be disgraced, according to his notions." "You are quite right, sir," said Poiret, "utterly disgraced he would be." "But none of all this explains why you do not come and take him without more ado," remarked Mlle. Michonneau.
Couture and Victorine drove away in a cab which Sylvie had called for them. Poiret gave his arm to Mlle. Michonneau, and they went together to spend the two sunniest hours of the day in the Jardin des Plantes. "Well, those two are as good as married," was the portly Sylvie's comment. "They are going out together to-day for the first time.
"I say," remarked the medical student, as they came to the end of a broad walk in the Jardin des Plantes, "I saw the Michonneau and Poiret a few minutes ago on a bench chatting with a gentleman whom I used to see in last year's troubles hanging about the Chamber of Deputies; he seems to me, in fact, to be a detective dressed up like a decent retired tradesman.
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