A poor garret on the sixth floor of one of the poorest houses in the
poorest quarters of Paris, does not give much opportunity for a detailed
description. There is little to be said about the furniture, which in
this case consisted of a rickety old table, a wooden stool, and a small
charcoal stove, all of the commonest kind, but all clean, and the room
was not quite without adornment. The window, to be sure, was in the
roof, but pinned to the wall were a few newspaper prints in strong
blacks and whites, and--most remarkable of all--there was an alcove for
the bed, which was carefully shut off from the room by a gaily
variegated chintz. In spite of its poverty and bareness, there was
nothing squalid or unwholesome about the place.
The house itself was a tall narrow slip. People of different callings,
and different degrees of respectability, lived in it; on the whole it
had not a bad character. The landlord was an immensely fat man, called
Plon--a name which, irresistibly converted into Plon-Plon, seemed to
give an aristocratic air to the house--and he lived and made shoes in a
small room at the foot of the lowest flight of stairs, so that he acted
as his own _concierge_, and boasted that no one came in or out without
his knowledge. Probably some of his lodgers contrived to elude his
vigilance, but he was as obstinate in his belief as an old Norman has a
right to be, and was a kind-hearted old fellow in the main, though with
the reputation of a _grognard_, and a ridiculous fear of being
discovered in a good action.
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