ONCE A WEEK.
Fib. 20, 1S64.]
There is not a man with whom you whose name is not familiar to
pay you.
are acquainted
ailments are at his he had a good memory, a and orthography, he might write romances that would pale the star of the His author of " La Femme de Trente Ana," malicious rye marks who comes when Mon-
All your
him.
little
If fingers' ends. fair notion of style
lieuT is out He knows when to put a pecuniary expression into his slavish countenance. .Monsieur de Vandenesse is understood by the concierge when the Marquis is all confidence.
The Marquise d'Aiglemont could not have dethe vengeance of the
fied
man
in the little
dark room, by the gateway of her hotel. Irresits in his sombre little
proachable himself, he cabin as judge in a
—
court of justice.
He
knows that those scandalous romancists of the about him. but he smiles, and counts his hundred-sous pieces, and as he drops them in the leather bag, he grins thinking of the time when some of these gentlemen will be ay, possibly lapping the lying in the hospital soup of Bicetre and he will be rentier, and will follow his daughter to the Bois de Boulogne in her wedding dress, having given her a pretty dot. He has bought Rentes already trust him. His five-franc pieces were at the disposition of his country during the Crimean war and the people laughed to see him Boulevards write
They
call
severe
him mouchard
things
—
—
—
The placement was highly counting them out. advantageous, it is true but, he trusted, people would give him a little credit for patriotism. His prying habits apart, the concierge is what we call a respectable man. He is always
hundred
235
domestic quarrels, executions, ruin, extraordinary strokes of luck, love, jealousy, ! by that little square window of hi-. How often has he helped to hang the black cloth gateway and to arrange the tapers round the coffin in the passage,
within view of the people in the street, that these might enter and sprinkle holy water on the dead I remember one frosty December !
(some ten years have flown since then) I was the proud inhabitant of rooms on the first floor of a student's hotel, in the Rue
morning
des Quatres Vents. Those four winds blew no Fate had hit a knock good to anybody. blow at every inhabitant of that street. It was the street of the great Paris family of the Empty Pockets. The morning was icy, and a keen wind blew through the long dusty passage that led to the street. I had a word to say man and wife. They had to the concierges made mistakes with my letters, and had given
—
some of my newspapers to the second floor. As I passed hurriedly into the stifling little place where the concierge and his w ife were T
rubbing their lean knees over a stifling little stove ; I almost fell over a long box (very like
an orange box), that was propped on end as a ladder, or a plank of timber, against the walk I made my complaint, and was met with that crushing and unanswerable humility for which my Quatre- Vents concierges were remarkable. Poverty is, to most people, a break in
the encampment that lets in a pack of wolves upon them. To my humble concierges it was
impenetrable armour.
at his post. He is bountifully civil. He is ever faithful to his trust. You will not often
" We are so poor, you see, sir," said they, " Wo are whenever I opened a complaint. Imbut we are poor people." very sorry
see a concierge before the Correctional Police. The extent of his dissipation is an occasional
possible to be angry with people who clasped On that December morning I had your knees.
coup at the nearest wine skop, with a neighOn fine evenings he sits under the gat-way, with his wife and her friend, lazily In the winter he is watching the passers-by, shut, with his wife and the friend (a neighbouring cook or housemaid), in his steamy den.
determined to be firm. " This is unendurable
bour.
It is gloomily lighted by an oil lamp, with a On a shelf, by the table, green shade over it. lie the letters of the lodgers. Against the wall are rows of keys, which open the various apart-
ments of the house.
The den is packed with every kind of bundle, domestic utensil, and package and overhead is a bed, that is let down on the floor, at night. The wife and her friend knit and talk scandal and the concierge, with the cordon at hand, reads the evening paper, and gives forth the news when he is in an amiable mood. He is a philosopher, whom nothing moves. He has seen every phase of life. Weddings and funerals by the
—
"
papers
!
Once more,
my
!
" You must really excuse anything this morning, sir, especially with poor people, who do their best." "And why this morning?" I answered.
"To begin with, I nearly broke, my shins over a great deal box you have planted halfway across the passage." " why it's Mademoiselle Lucille !" That, sir I had stumbled against a coffin, containing the remains of a lodger whom I had seen day after day drawing water at the fountain oppo-
—
site
when preparations were an humble lying in state under
my window
making
for
the gateway.
was silenced ; and suffered henceforth the blunders of the poor conciergerie, without comI
plaint.
I
have no doubt now, having at any