with all the nooks and
corners of financial Bohemia in general and the _Caisse Territoriale_
in particular, to step foot in that den.

"But," said Passajon--for it was Passajon, who, happening to meet the
good man and finding that he was unemployed, had spoken to him of
taking service with Paganetti--"but I tell you again that it's all
right. We have plenty of money. We pay our debts. I have been paid;
just see what a dandy I am."

In truth, the old clerk had a new livery, and his paunch protruded
majestically beneath his tunic with silver buttons. For all that, M.
Joyeuse had withstood the temptation, even after Passajon, opening wide
his bulging eyes, had whispered with emphasis in his ear these words
big with promise:

"The Nabob is in it."

Even after that, M. Joyeuse had had the courage to say no. Was it not
better to die of hunger than to enter the service of an unsubstantial
house whose books he might some day be called upon to examine as an
expert before a court of justice?

So he continued to wander about; but he was discouraged and had
abandoned his search for employment. As it was necessary for him to
remain away from home, he loitered in front of the shop-windows on the
quays, leaned for hours on the parapets, watching the river and the
boats discharging their cargoes. He became one of those idlers whom we
see in the front rank of all street crowds, taking refuge from a shower
under porches, drawing near the stoves on which the asphalters boil
their tar in the open air, to warm themselves, and sinking on benches
along the boulevard when their feet can no longer carry them.

What an excellent way of lengthening one's days, to do nothing!

On certain days, however, when M. Joyeuse was too tired or the weather
too inclement, he waited at the end of the street until the young
ladies had closed their window, then went back to the house, hugging
the walls, hurried upstairs, holding his breath as he passed his own
door, and took refuge with the photographer, Andre Maranne, who, being
aware of his catastrophe, offered him the compassionate welcome which
poor devils extend to one another. Customers are rare so near the
barriers. He would sit for many hours in the studio, talking in an
undertone, reading by his friend's side, listening to the rain on the
window-panes or the wind whistling as in mid-ocean, rattling the old
doors and window-frames in the graveyard of demolished buildings below.
On the next flo