each house should have its big refuse-box, called ever since by his name, there was a general uproar in the Press. What! disturb the amiable customs of the interesting rag-picker! Diminish the income of these delicious Parisians!
Little by little their favourite and most famous citadels have been demolished, their oddly named groups dispersed. There used to be the Cité des Singes and the Cité des Mousquetaires, now no longer in existence. The rag-pickers are everywhere, and live just like other citizens. I visited the rag-pickers of my quarter the other day. I found them in an airy quarter of Grenelle, like a quiet little town of the provinces on the edge of a wide river. Who would dream it was Paris, and that broad splash of dull grey, the lively brilliant Seine that flows past the Louvre? When I reached the rag-picker's dwelling, she was out, and two neighbours from different doors appeared to assist me. If they had known me all their lives they could not have given me a more friendly greeting. One went off in search of the rag-picker, the other pressed me to take a seat in her room. The rag-picker came, one of the jolliest and pleasantest-looking women I ever saw. She spoke admirably, with perfect gesticulation, with inflection of voice, management of eyebrows that would have won her distinction in a salon. Her expressive face was clean, but her hands
