rom other chambers, while in one corner of this deplorable
habitation a door off the hinges opened upon a narrow staircase. The
ground, of a nameless colour, but foul, fetid, and slippery, was partly
strewed with bits of dirty straw, old rags, and bones, the residue of
that unwholesome and vitiated food sold by the dealers in condemned
meat, and frequently bought by starving wretches, for the purpose of
gnawing the few cartilages that may adhere.[4]

[4] It is no uncommon thing to meet, in densely crowded parts
of Paris, with persons who openly sell the flesh of animals born
dead, as well as of others who have died of disease, etc.

So wretched a condition either arises from improvidence and vice, or
from unavoidable misery,--misery so great, so overwhelming and
paralysing, as to enfeeble every energy, and to render the unhappy
object of it too hopeless, too despairing, even to attempt to extricate
himself from the squalor of his utter destitution, and he crouches in
his dirt and desolation like an animal in its den.

During the day, Morel's garret was lighted by a species of long, narrow
skylight formed in the descending roof, framed and glazed, and made to
open and shut by means of a pulley and string; but, at the hour which we
are describing, a heavy fall of snow encumbered the window, and
effectually prevented its affording any light. The candle placed on
Morel's working-table, which stood in the centre of the chamber,
diffused a kind of halo of pale, sickly beams, which, gradually
diminishing, was at last lost in the dim shadow which overspread the
place, in whose murky duskiness might be seen the faint outline of
several white-looking masses. On the work-table, which was merely a
heavy and roughly cut wooden block of unpolished oak, covered with
grease and soot, lay, loosely scattered about, a handful of rubies and
diamonds, of more than ordinary size and brilliancy, while, as the mean
rays of the small candle were reflected on them, they glittered and
sparkled like so many coruscating fires.

Morel was a worker of real stones, and not false ones, as he had given
out, and as was universally believed, in the Rue du Temple. Thanks to
this innocent deception, the costly jewels entrusted to him were merely
supposed to be so many pieces of glass, too valueless to tempt the
cupidity of any one. Such riches, confided to the care of one as poor
and miserably destitute as Morel, will render any reference to the
h