er will enjoy that," said Ravenouillet, departing.

"There are seventy-one tenants in this house," said Bixiou, "and the
average of what they owe Ravenouillet is six thousand francs a month,
eighteen thousand quarterly for money advanced, postage, etc., not
counting the rents due. He is Providence--at thirty per cent, which we
all pay him, though he never asks for anything."

"Oh, Paris! Paris!" cried Gazonal.

"I'm going to take you now, cousin Gazonal," said Bixiou, after
indorsing the notes, "to see another comedian, who will play you a
charming scene gratis."

"Who is it?" said Gazonal.

"A usurer. As we go along I'll tell you the debut of friend Ravenouillet
in Paris."

Passing in front of the porter's lodge, Gazonal saw Mademoiselle
Lucienne Ravenouillet holding in her hand a music score (she was a
pupil of the Conservatoire), her father reading a newspaper, and Madame
Ravenouillet with a package of letters to be carried up to the lodgers.

"Thanks, Monsieur Bixiou!" said the girl.

"She's not a rat," explained Leon to his cousin; "she is the larva of
the grasshopper."

"Here's the history of Ravenouillet," continued Bixiou, when the three
friends reached the boulevard. "In 1831 Massol, the councillor of state
who is dealing with your case, was a lawyer-journalist who at that time
never thought of being more than Keeper of the Seals, and deigned to
have King Louis-Philippe on his throne. Forgive his ambition, he's from
Carcassonne. One morning there entered to him a young rustic of his
parts, who said: 'You know me very well, Mossoo Massol; I'm your
neighbour the grocer's little boy; I've come from down there, for
they tell me a fellow is certain to get a place if he comes to Paris.'
Hearing these words, Massol shuddered, and said to himself that if he
were weak enough to help this compatriot (to him utterly unknown) he
should have the whole department prone upon him, his bell-rope would
break, his valet leave him, he should have difficulties with his
landlord about the stairway, and the other lodgers would assuredly
complain of the smell of garlic pervading the house. Consequently, he
looked at his visitor as a butcher looks at a sheep whose throat he
intends to cut. But whether the rustic comprehended the stab of that
glance or not, he went on to say (so Massol told me), 'I've as much
ambition as other men. I will never go back to my native place, if I
ever do go back, unless I am a rich man. Paris is