and gossip with landladies, and ask who lived above and who
below--he knew that this was of all pastimes the dearest to Tristram's
heart, and he felt the more disposed to put it in his way as he was
conscious that, as regards his obliging friend, he had suffered the
warmth of ancient good-fellowship somewhat to abate. Besides, he had no
taste for upholstery; he had even no very exquisite sense of comfort
or convenience. He had a relish for luxury and splendor, but it was
satisfied by rather gross contrivances. He scarcely knew a hard chair
from a soft one, and he possessed a talent for stretching his legs which
quite dispensed with adventitious facilities. His idea of comfort was to
inhabit very large rooms, have a great many of them, and be conscious of
their possessing a number of patented mechanical devices--half of which
he should never have occasion to use. The apartments should be light and
brilliant and lofty; he had once said that he liked rooms in which you
wanted to keep your hat on. For the rest, he was satisfied with the
assurance of any respectable person that everything was "handsome."
Tristram accordingly secured for him an apartment to which this epithet
might be lavishly applied. It was situated on the Boulevard Haussmann,
on the first floor, and consisted of a series of rooms, gilded from
floor to ceiling a foot thick, draped in various light shades of satin,
and chiefly furnished with mirrors and clocks. Newman thought them
magnificent, thanked Tristram heartily, immediately took possession, and
had one of his trunks standing for three months in his drawing-room.

One day Mrs. Tristram told him that her beautiful friend, Madame de
Cintre, had returned from the country; that she had met her three days
before, coming out of the Church of St. Sulpice; she herself having
journeyed to that distant quarter in quest of an obscure lace-mender, of
whose skill she had heard high praise.

"And how were those eyes?" Newman asked.

"Those eyes were red with weeping, if you please!" said Mrs. Tristram.
"She had been to confession."

"It doesn't tally with your account of her," said Newman, "that she
should have sins to confess."

"They were not sins; they were sufferings."

"How do you know that?"

"She asked me to come and see her; I went this morning."

"And what does she suffer from?"

"I didn't ask her. With her, somehow, one is very discreet. But I
guessed, easily enough. She suffers from her wicked