“This is the place,” thought Jules.

He pulled an old bellrope, black with age, and heard the smothered sound of a cracked bell and the barking of an asthmatic little dog.  By the way the sounds echoed from the interior he knew that the rooms were encumbered with articles which left no space for reverberation, —­a characteristic feature of the homes of workmen and humble households, where space and air are always lacking.

Jules looked out mechanically for the pinks, and found them on the outer sill of a sash window between two filthy drain-pipes.  So here were flowers; here, a garden, two yards long and six inches wide; here, a wheat-ear; here, a whole life epitomized; but here, too, all the miseries of that life.  A ray of light falling from heaven as if by special favor on those puny flowers and the vigorous wheat-ear brought out in full relief the dust, the grease, and that nameless color, peculiar to Parisian squalor, made of dirt, which crusted and spotted the damp walls, the worm-eaten balusters, the disjointed window-casings, and the door originally red.  Presently the cough of an old woman, and a heavy female step, shuffling painfully in list slippers, announced the coming of the mother of Ida Gruget.  The creature opened the door and came out upon the landing, looked up, and said:—­

“Ah! is this Monsieur Bocquillon?  Why, no?  But perhaps you’re his brother.  What can I do for you?  Come in, monsieur.”

Jules followed her into the first room, where he saw, huddled together, cages, household utensils, ovens, furniture, little earthenware dishes full of food or water for the dog and the cats, a wooden clock, bed-quilts, engravings of Eisen, heaps of old iron, all these things mingled and massed together in a way that produced a most grotesque effect,—­a true Parisian dusthole, in which were not lacking a few old numbers of the “Constitutionel.”

Jules, impelled by a sense of prudence, paid no attention to the widow’s invitation when she said civilly, showing him an inner room:—­

“Come in here, monsieur, and warm yourself.”

Fearing to be overheard by Ferragus, Jules asked himself whether it were not wisest to conclude the arrangement he had come to make with the old woman in the crowded antechamber.  A hen, which descended cackling from a loft, roused him from this inward meditation.  He came to a resolution, and followed Ida’s mother into the inner room, whither they were accompanied by the wheezy pug, a personage otherwise mute, who jumped upon a stool.  Madame Gruget showed the assumption of semi-pauperism when she invited her visitor to warm himself.  Her fire-pot contained, or rather concealed two bits of sticks, which lay apart:  the grating was on the ground, its handle in the ashes.  The mantel-shelf, adorned with a little wax Jesus under a shade of squares of glass held together with blue paper, was piled with wools, bobbins, and tools used in the making of gimps and trimmings.  Jules examined everything in the room with a curiosity that was full of interest, and showed, in spite of himself, an inward satisfaction.