But at length the end was reached, and Jean, beaming and triumphant, announced their goal.

’This way!  If monsieur would have the goodness to take two steps in this direction!’ He dived into a long, dark corridor, illuminated by a single flickering gas-jet, twin brother to that which lighted the office below; and, still eager, still breathing loudly, he ushered the guest toward what in his humble soul he believed to be the luxurious, the impressive bedroom supplied by the Hotel Railleux at three francs a night.

The boy looked about him as he passed down the dim corridor.  Apparently he and Jean alone were awake in this gloomy maze of closed doors and sleeping passages.  One sign of humanity—­and one alone—­came to his senses with a suggestion of sordid drama.  On the floor, at the closed door of one of the rooms, stood a battered black tray on which reposed an empty champagne bottle and two soiled glasses.

Life!  His quick imagination conjured a picture—­conjured and shrank from it.  He turned away with a sense of sharp disgust and almost ran down the corridor to where Jean was fitting a key into the door of his prospective bedroom.

“The room, monsieur!” Jean’s voice was full of pride.  He had lived for ten years in the Hotel Railleux, working as six men and six women together would not have worked in the fashionable quarter, and he had never been shaken in his belief that Paris held no more inviting hostelry.

The boy obediently stepped forward into the tiny apartment, in which a big wooden bedstead loomed out of all proportion.  His movements were hasty, as though he desired to escape from some impression; his voice, when he spoke, was vague.

“Very nice!  Very nice!” he said.  “And—­and what is the view?”

“The view?  Oh, but monsieur will like the view!” Jean stepped to the window, drew back the heavy cretonne curtains, and threw open the long window, admitting a breath of chilling cold.  “The court-yard!  See, monsieur!  The court-yard!”

The boy came forward into the biting air and gazed down into the well-like depths of gloom, at the bottom of which could be discerned a small flagged court, ornamented by a couple of dwarfed and frost-bitten trees in painted tubs.

Jean, watchful of the visitor’s face, broke forth anew with inexhaustible tact.

’It was a fine view—­monsieur would admit that!  But, naturally, it was not the street!  Now No. 107, across the corridor—­at five francs—?’

Monsieur was aroused.  “No!  No! certainly not.  The view was of no consequence.  The bed looked all right.”

‘The bed!’ Here Jean spoke with deep feeling.  ’There was no better bed in Paris.  Had he not himself put clean sheets on it that day?’ He turned from the window, and with the hand of an expert displayed the beauties of the sparse blankets, the cotton sheets, and the mountainous double mattress.

’But monsieur was anxious to retire?  Doubtless monsieur would sleep until dejeuner?  A most excellent dejeuner was served in the salle-a-manger on the second floor.’