“Does that dog bark at night?” he asked.

“Oh! don’t be uneasy, monsieur; you’ll only have one week to stand those persons.  Monsieur Bernard can’t pay his rent and we are going to put him out.  They are queer people, I tell you!  I have never seen their dog.  That animal is sometimes months, yes, six months at a time without making a sound; you might think they hadn’t a dog.  The beast never leaves the lady’s room.  There’s a sick lady in there, and very sick, too; she’s never been out of her room since she came.  Old Monsieur Bernard works hard, and the son, too; the lad is a day-scholar at the school of Louis-le-Grand, where he is nearly through his philosophy course, and only sixteen, too; that’s something to boast of! but the little scamp has to work like one possessed.  Presently you’ll hear them bring out the plants they keep in the lady’s room and carry in fresh ones.  They themselves, the grandfather and the boy, only eat bread, though they buy flowers and all sorts of dainties for the lady.  She must be very ill, not to leave her room once since entering it; and if one’s to believe Monsieur Berton, the doctor, she’ll never come out except feet foremost.”

“What does this Monsieur Bernard do?”

“It seems he’s a learned man; he writes and goes about to libraries.  Monsieur lends him money on his compositions.”

“Monsieur? who is he?”

“The proprietor of the house, Monsieur Barbet, the old bookseller.  He is a Norman who used to sell green stuff in the streets, and afterwards set up a bookstall, in 1818, on the quay.  Then he got a little shop, and now he is very rich.  He is a kind of a Jew, with a score of trades; he was even a partner with the Italian who built this barrack to lodge silk-worms.”

“So this house is a refuge for unfortunate authors?” said Godefroid.

“Is monsieur unluckily one himself?” asked the widow Vauthier.

“I am only just starting,” replied Godefroid.

“Oh! my dear monsieur, take my advice and don’t go on; journalist? well,—­I won’t say anything against that.”

Godefroid could not help laughing as he bade good-night to the portress, who thus, all unconsciously, represented the bourgeoisie.  As he went to bed in the horrible room, floored with bricks that were not even colored, and hung with a paper at seven sous a roll, Godefroid not only regretted his little rooms in the rue Chanoinesse, but also the society of Madame de la Chanterie.  He felt a void in his soul.  He had already acquired habits of mind; and could not remember to have so keenly regretted anything in all his former life as this break in his new existence.  These thoughts, as they pressed upon him, had a great effect upon his soul; he felt that no life could compare in value with the one he sought to embrace, and his resolution to emulate the good old Alain became unshakable.  Without having any vocation for the work, he had the will to do it.