They had lived in their lodging for five years.

Behind the quiet peacefulness of their life, a long standing sorrow was hidden.

Goujet the father, one day when furiously drunk at Lille, had beaten a comrade to death with an iron bar and had afterwards strangled himself in prison with his handkerchief.
The widow and child, who had come to Paris after their misfortune, always felt the tragedy hanging over their heads, and atoned for it by a strict honesty and an unvarying gentleness and courage.

They had a certain amount of pride in their attitude and regarded themselves as better than other people.
Madame Goujet, dressed in black as usual, her forehead framed in a nun's hood, had a pale, calm, matronly face, as if the whiteness of the lace and the delicate work of her fingers had cast a glow of serenity over her.

Goujet was twenty-three years old, huge, magnificently built, with deep blue eyes and rosy cheeks, and the strength of Hercules.