Nothing had ever occurred to change the monotonous order of his
existence, for no event affected him except the work of his office,
perquisites, gratuities, and promotion. He never spoke of anything but
of his duties, either at the office, or at home--he had married the
portionless daughter of one of his colleagues. His mind, which was in a
state of atrophy from his depressing daily work, had no other thoughts,
hopes or dreams than such as related to the office, and there was a
constant source of bitterness that spoilt every pleasure that he might
have had, and that was the employment of so many naval officials,
tinsmiths, as they were called because of their silver-lace as
first-class clerks; and every evening at dinner he discussed the matter
hotly with his wife, who shared his angry feelings, and proved to their
own satisfaction that it was in every way unjust to give places in Paris
to men who ought properly to have been employed in the navy.

He was old now, and had scarcely noticed how his life was passing, for
school had merely been exchanged for the office without any intermediate
transition, and the ushers, at whom he had formerly trembled, were
replaced by his chiefs, of whom he was terribly afraid. When he had to
go into the rooms of these official despots, it made him tremble from
head to foot, and that constant fear had given him a very awkward manner
in their presence, a humble demeanor, and a kind of nervous stammering.

He knew nothing more about Paris than a blind man might know who was led
to the same spot by his dog every day; and if he read the account of
any uncommon events or scandals in his penny paper, they appeared to
him like fantastic tales, which some pressman had made up out of his
own head, in order to amuse the inferior employees. He did not read the
political news, which his paper frequently altered as the cause which
subsidized it might require, for he was not fond of innovations, and
when he went through the Avenue of the Champs-Elysees every evening,
he looked at the surging crowd of pedestrians, and at the stream of
carriages, as a traveller might who has lost his way in a strange
country.

As he had completed his thirty years of obligatory service that year,
on the first of January, he had had the cross of the Legion of Honor
bestowed upon him, which, in the semi-military public offices, is a
recompense for the miserable slavery--the official phrase is, loyal
services--of unfor