The building is a thing of many windows, where passably good-looking women appear and disappear, clad in cotton gowns, watering little outside shelves of flowers and cacti, or hanging canaries’ cages.  Their husbands are keepers in wine-warehouses, rent-collectors for the agents of old Frenchmen who have been laid up to dry in Paris, custom-house supernumeraries and court-clerks’ deputies (for your second-rate Creole is a great seeker for little offices).  A decaying cornice hangs over, dropping bits of mortar on passers below, like a boy at a boarding-house.

The landlord is one Kookoo, an ancient Creole of doubtful purity of blood, who in his landlordly old age takes all suggestions of repairs as personal insults.  He was but a stripling when his father left him this inheritance, and has grown old and wrinkled and brown, a sort of periodically animate mummy, in the business.  He smokes cascarilla, wears velveteen, and is as punctual as an executioner.

To Kookoo’s venerable property a certain old man used for many years to come every evening, stumbling through the groups of prattling children who frolicked about in the early moonlight—­whose name no one knew, but whom all the neighbors designated by the title of ’Sieur George.  It was his wont to be seen taking a straight—­too straight—­course toward his home, never careening to right or left, but now forcing himself slowly forward, as though there were a high gale in front, and now scudding briskly ahead at a ridiculous little dog-trot, as if there were a tornado behind.  He would go up the main staircase very carefully, sometimes stopping half-way up for thirty or forty minutes’ doze, but getting to the landing eventually, and tramping into his room in the second story, with no little elation to find it still there.  Were it not for these slight symptoms of potations, he was such a one as you would pick out of a thousand for a miser.  A year or two ago he suddenly disappeared.

A great many years ago, when the old house was still new, a young man with no baggage save a small hair-trunk, came and took the room I have mentioned and another adjoining.  He supposed he might stay fifty days—­and he staid fifty years and over.  This was a very fashionable neighborhood, and he kept the rooms on that account month after month.

But when he had been here about a year something happened to him, so it was rumored, that greatly changed the tenor of his life; and from that time on there began to appear in him and to accumulate upon each other in a manner which became the profound study of Kookoo, the symptoms of a decay, whose cause baffled the landlord’s limited powers of conjecture for well-nigh half a century.  Hints of a duel, of a reason warped, of disinheritance, and many other unauthorized rumors, fluttered up and floated off, while he became recluse, and, some say, began incidentally to betray the unmanly habit which we have already noticed.  His neighbors would have continued neighborly had he allowed them, but he never let himself be understood, and les Americains are very droll anyhow; so, as they could do nothing else, they cut him.