rtaken in the rue
Coquilliere by one of those heavy showers which instantly flood the
gutters, while each drop of rain rings loudly in the puddles of the
roadway. A pedestrian under these circumstances is forced to stop short
and take refuge in a shop or cafe if he is rich enough to pay for
the forced hospitality, or, if in poorer circumstances, under a
_porte-cochere_, that haven of paupers or shabbily dressed persons. Why
have none of our painters ever attempted to reproduce the physiognomies
of a swarm of Parisians, grouped, under stress of weather, in the damp
_porte-cochere_ of a building? First, there's the musing philosophical
pedestrian, who observes with interest all he sees,--whether it be the
stripes made by the rain on the gray background of the atmosphere (a
species of chasing not unlike the capricious threads of spun glass), or
the whirl of white water which the wind is driving like a luminous
dust along the roofs, or the fitful disgorgements of the gutter-pipes,
sparkling and foaming; in short, the thousand nothings to be admired and
studied with delight by loungers, in spite of the porter's broom which
pretends to be sweeping out the gateway. Then there's the talkative
refugee, who complains and converses with the porter while he rests on
his broom like a grenadier on his musket; or the pauper wayfarer, curled
against the wall indifferent to the condition of his rags, long used,
alas, to contact with the streets; or the learned pedestrian who
studies, spells, and reads the posters on the walls without finishing
them; or the smiling pedestrian who makes fun of others to whom some
street fatality has happened, who laughs at the muddy women, and makes
grimaces at those of either sex who are looking from the windows; and
the silent being who gazes from floor to floor; and the working-man,
armed with a satchel or a paper bundle, who is estimating the rain as a
profit or loss; and the good-natured fugitive, who arrives like a shot
exclaiming, "Ah! what weather, messieurs, what weather!" and bows
to every one; and, finally, the true _bourgeois_ of Paris, with his
unfailing umbrella, an expert in showers, who foresaw this particular
one, but would come out in spite of his wife; this one takes a seat in
the porter's chair. According to individual character, each member of
this fortuitous society contemplates the skies, and departs, skipping
to avoid the mud,--because he is in a hurry, or because he sees other
citi