from the room by a gaily
variegated chintz. In spite of its poverty and bareness, there was
nothing squalid or unwholesome about the place.

The house itself was a tall narrow slip. People of different callings,
and different degrees of respectability, lived in it; on the whole it
had not a bad character. The landlord was an immensely fat man, called
Plon--a name which, irresistibly converted into Plon-Plon, seemed to
give an aristocratic air to the house--and he lived and made shoes in a
small room at the foot of the lowest flight of stairs, so that he acted
as his own _concierge_, and boasted that no one came in or out without
his knowledge. Probably some of his lodgers contrived to elude his
vigilance, but he was as obstinate in his belief as an old Norman has a
right to be, and was a kind-hearted old fellow in the main, though with
the reputation of a _grognard_, and a ridiculous fear of being
discovered in a good action. Perhaps with this fear, the more credit was
due to him for occasionally running the risk, as when he saw young
Monnier, the artist, coming down the stairs one evening with a look in
his eyes, which Plon told himself gave him an immediate shuddering
back-sensation, as of cold water and marble slabs. Plon did something
for him, perhaps knocked off the rent, but he implored Monnier to show
his gratitude by saying nothing, and he never gave him more of a
greeting than the sidelong twist he vouchsafed to the other lodgers. For
the rest, his benevolence depended in a great measure upon his temper,
and he prided himself upon being very terrible at times.

With five floors we have nothing to do, and need waste no time over
them. The inmates mostly went out early and came in late, but the house
kept better hours than its neighbours, for the simple reason that those
who arrived after a certain time found themselves shut into the street
for the night. They might hammer and appeal in the strongest language
of their vocabulary, but Plon snored unmoved, and nothing short of a
fire in the house would have turned him out of his bed. Gradually this
became so well understood, that his lodgers accommodated themselves to
it as to any other of the inexorable laws of fate.

On the sixth and highest floor the crowded house resolved itself into
comparative quiet. Besides the garret of which we have spoken, there
were two other rooms, but for some years past these had been used merely
as store-rooms for furniture. No on