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for the most part； their frames were solid enough； their
constitutions had weathered the storms of life； their cold； hard
faces were worn like coins that have been withdrawn from
circulation； but there were greedy teeth behind the withered
lips。 Dramas brought to a close or still in progress are
foreshadowed by the sight of such actors as these； not the dramas
that are played before the footlights and against a background of
painted canvas； but dumb dramas of life； frost…bound dramas that
sere hearts like fire； dramas that do not end with the actors'
lives。
Mlle。 Michonneau； that elderly young lady； screened her weak eyes
from the daylight by a soiled green silk shade with a rim of
brass； an object fit to scare away the Angel of Pity himself。 Her
shawl； with its scanty； draggled fringe； might have covered a
skeleton； so meagre and angular was the form beneath it。 Yet she
must have been pretty and shapely once。 What corrosive had
destroyed the feminine outlines？ Was it trouble； or vice； or
greed？ Had she loved too well？ Had she been a second…hand clothes
dealer； a frequenter of the backstairs of great houses； or had
she been merely a courtesan？ Was she expiating the flaunting
triumphs of a youth overcrowded with pleasures by an old age in
which she was shunned by every passer…by？ Her vacant gaze sent a
chill through you； her shriveled face seemed like a menace。 Her
voice was like the shrill； thin note of the grasshopper sounding
from the thicket when winter is at hand。 She said that she had
nursed an old gentleman； ill of catarrh of the bladder； and left
to die by his children； who thought that he had nothing left。 His
bequest to her； a life annuity of a thousand francs； was
periodically disputed by his heirs； who mingled slander with
their persecutions。 In spite of the ravages of conflicting
passions； her face retained some traces of its former fairness
and fineness of tissue； some vestiges of the physical charms of
her youth still survived。
M。 Poiret was a sort of automaton。 He might be seen any day
sailing like a gray shadow along the walks of the Jardin des
Plantes； on his head a shabby cap； a cane with an old yellow
ivory handle in the tips of his thin fingers； the outspread
skirts of his threadbare overcoat failed to conceal his meagre
figure； his breeches hung loosely on his shrunken limbs； the
thin； blue…stockinged legs trembled like those of a drunken man；
there was a notable breach of continuity between the dingy white
waistcoat and crumpled shirt frills and the cravat twisted about
a throat like a turkey gobbler's； altogether； his appearance set
people wondering whether this outlandish ghost belonged to the
audacious race of the sons of Japhet who flutter about on the
Boulevard Italien。 What devouring kind of toil could have so
shriveled him？ What devouring passions had darkened that bulbous
countenance； which would have seemed outrageous as a caricature？
What had he been？ Well； perhaps he had been part of the machinery
of justice； a clerk in the office to which the executioner sends
in his accounts；so much for providing black veils for
parricides； so much for sawdust； so much for pulleys and cord for
the knife。 Or he might have been a receiver at the door of a
public slaughter…house； or a sub…inspector of nuisances。 Indeed；
the man appeared to have been one of the beasts of burden in our
great social mill； one of those Parisian Ratons whom their
Bertrands do not even know by sight； a pivot in the obscure
machinery that disposes of misery and things unclean； one of
those men； in short； at sight of whom we are prompted to remark
that； 〃After all； we cannot do without them。〃
Stately Paris ignores the existence of these faces bleached by
moral or physical suffering； but； then； Paris is in truth an
ocean that no line can plumb。 You may survey its surface and
describe it； but no matter how numerous and painstaking the
toilers in this sea； there will always be lonely and unexplored
regions in its depths； caverns unknown； flowers and pearls and
monsters of the deep overlooked or forgotten by the divers of
literature。 The Maison Vauquer is one of these curious
monstrosities。
Two； however； of Mme。 Vauquer's boarders formed a striking
contrast to the rest。 There was a sickly pallor； such as is often
seen in anaemic girls； in Mlle。 Victorine Taillefer's face； and
her unvarying expression of sadness； like her embarrassed manner
and pinched look； was in keeping with the general wretchedness of
the establishment in the Rue Nueve…Saint…Genevieve； which forms a
background to this picture； but her face was young； there was
youthfulness in her voice and elasticity in her movements。 This
young misfortune was not unlike a shrub； newly planted in an
uncongenial soil； where its leaves have already begun to wither。
The outlines of her figure； revealed by her dress of the simplest
and cheapest materials； were also youthful。 There was the same
kind of charm about her too slender form； her faintly colored
face and light…brown hair； that modern poets find in mediaeval
statuettes； and a sweet expression； a look of Christian
resignation in the dark gray eyes。 She was pretty by force of
contrast； if she had been happy； she would have been charming。
Happiness is the poetry of woman； as the toilette is her tinsel。
If the delightful excitement of a ball had made the pale face
glow with color； if the delights of a luxurious life had brought
the color to the wan cheeks that were slightly hollowed already；
if love had put light into the sad eyes； then Victorine might
have ranked among the fairest； but she lacked the two things
which create woman a second timepretty dresses and love…
letters。
A book might have been made of her story。 Her father was
persuaded that he had sufficient reason for declining to
acknowledge her； and allowed her a bare six hundred francs a
year； he had further taken measures to disinherit his daughter；
and had converted all his real estate into personalty； that he
might leave it undivided to his son。 Victorine's mother had died
broken…hearted in Mme。 Couture's house； and the latter； who was a
near relation； had taken charge of the little orphan。 Unluckily；
the widow of the commissary…general to the armies of the Republic
had nothing in the world but her jointure and her widow's
pension； and some day she might be obliged to leave the helpless；
inexperienced girl to the mercy of the world。 The good soul；
therefore； took Victorine to mass every Sunday； and to confession
once a fortnight； thinking that； in any case； she would bring up
her ward to be devout。 She was right； religion offered a solution
of the problem of the young girl's future。 The poor child loved
the father who refused to acknowledge her。 Once every year she
tried to see him to deliver her mother's message of forgiveness；
but every year hitherto she had knocked at that door in vain； her
father was inexorable。 Her bro