heet of music-paper. Have you forgotten what I have just told you
about turning the staircase and hiring the first floor of the next
house?--which is all settled with the umbrella-maker, Cayron. He and I
are going to-morrow to see his proprietor, Monsieur Molineux. To-morrow
I have as much to do as a minister of state."

"You turn my brain with your projects," said Constance. "I am all mixed
up. Besides, Birotteau, I'm asleep."

"Good-day," replied the husband. "Just listen; I say good-day because it
is morning, Mimi. Ah! there she is off, the dear child. Yes! you shall
be rich, _richissime_, or I'll renounce my name of Cesar!"

A few moments later Constance and Cesar were peacefully snoring.

II

A glance rapidly thrown over the past life of this household will
strengthen the ideas which ought to have been suggested by the friendly
altercation of the two personages in this scene. While picturing the
manners and customs of retail shopkeepers, this sketch will also show by
what singular chances Cesar Birotteau became deputy-mayor and perfumer,
retired officer of the National Guard, and chevalier of the Legion of
honor. In bringing to light the depths of his character and the causes
of his rise, we shall show that fortuitous commercial events which
strong brains dominate, may become irreparable catastrophes for weak
ones. Events are never absolute; their results depend on individuals.
Misfortune is a stepping-stone for genius, the baptismal font of
Christians, a treasure for the skilful man, an abyss for the feeble.

A vine-dresser in the neighborhood of Chinon, named Jean Birotteau,
married the waiting-maid of a lady whose vines he tilled. He had three
sons; his wife died in giving birth to the last, and the poor man
did not long survive her. The mistress had been fond of the maid, and
brought up with her own sons the eldest child, Francois, and placed him
in a seminary. Ordained priest, Francois Birotteau hid himself during
the Revolution, and led the wandering life of priests not sworn by the
Republic, hunted like wild beasts and guillotined at the first chance.
At the time when this history begins he was vicar of the cathedral of
Tours, and had only once left that city to visit his brother Cesar.
The bustle of Paris so bewildered the good priest that he was afraid to
leave his room. He called the cabriolets "half-coaches," and wondered at
all he saw. After a week's stay he went back to Tours resolving never