their degradation, and
degraded in their joys; all are marked with the stamp of debauchery,
casting their silence as a reproach; their very attitude revealing
fearful thoughts. Placed between crime and beggary they have no
compunctions, and circle prudently around the scaffold without mounting
it, innocent in the midst of crime, and vicious in their innocence. They
often cause a laugh, but they always cause reflection. One represents
to you civilization stunted, repressed; he comprehends everything, the
honor of the galleys, patriotism, virtue, the malice of a vulgar crime,
or the fine astuteness of elegant wickedness. Another is resigned, a
perfect mimer, but stupid. All have slight yearnings after order and
work, but they are pushed back into their mire by society, which makes
no inquiry as to what there may be of great men, poets, intrepid souls,
and splendid organizations among these vagrants, these gypsies of Paris;
a people eminently good and eminently evil--like all the masses who
suffer--accustomed to endure unspeakable woes, and whom a fatal power
holds ever down to the level of the mire. They all have a dream, a hope,
a happiness,--cards, lottery, or wine.

There was nothing of all this in the personage who now leaned carelessly
against the wall in front of Monsieur de Maulincour, like some fantastic
idea drawn by an artist on the back of a canvas the front of which is
turned to the wall. This tall, spare man, whose leaden visage expressed
some deep but chilling thought, dried up all pity in the hearts of those
who looked at him by the scowling look and the sarcastic attitude which
announced an intention of treating every man as an equal. His face was
of a dirty white, and his wrinkled skull, denuded of hair, bore a vague
resemblance to a block of granite. A few gray locks on either side
of his head fell straight to the collar of his greasy coat, which was
buttoned to the chin. He resembled both Voltaire and Don Quixote;
he was, apparently, scoffing but melancholy, full of disdain and
philosophy, but half-crazy. He seemed to have no shirt. His beard was
long. A rusty black cravat, much worn and ragged, exposed a protuberant
neck deeply furrowed, with veins as thick as cords. A large brown circle
like a bruise was strongly marked beneath his eyes, He seemed to be at
least sixty years old. His hands were white and clean. His boots were
trodden down at the heels, and full of holes. A pair of blue trousers,
mende