certain sense of terror the instant you perceived that the resignation
of these souls, all engaged in the struggle for every necessary of

life, was purely fortuitous, a speculation on benevolence. The two
tallow candles which lighted the parlor flickered in a sort of fog

caused by the fetid atmosphere of the ill-ventilated room.
The magistrate himself was not the least picturesque figure in the

midst of this assembly. He had on his head a rusty cotton night-cap;
as he had no cravat, his neck was visible, red with cold and wrinkled,

in contrast with the threadbare collar of his old dressing-gown. His
worn face had the half-stupid look that comes of absorbed attention.

His lips, like those of all men who work, were puckered up like a bag
with the strings drawn tight. His knitted brows seemed to bear the

burden of all the sorrows confided to him: he felt, analyzed, and
judged them all. As watchful as a Jew money-lender, he never raised

his eyes from his books and registers but to look into the very heart
of the persons he was examining, with the flashing glance by which a

miser expresses his alarm.
Lavienne, standing behind his master, ready to carry out his orders,

served no doubt as a sort of police, and welcomed newcomers by
encouraging them to get over their shyness. When the doctor appeared

there was a stir on the benches. Lavienne turned his head, and was
strangely surprised to see Bianchon.

"Ah! It is you, old boy!" exclaimed Popinot, stretching himself. "What
brings you so early?"

"I was afraid lest you should make an official visit about which I
wish to speak to you before I could see you."

"Well," said the lawyer, addressing a stout little woman who was still
standing close to him, "if you do not tell me what it is you want, I

cannot guess it, child."
"Make haste," said Lavienne. "Do not waste other people's time."

"Monsieur," said the woman at last, turning red, and speaking so low
as only to be heard by Popinot and Lavienne, "I have a green-grocery

truck, and I have my last baby to nurse, and I owe for his keep. Well,
I had hidden my little bit of money----"

"Yes; and your man took it?" said Popinot, guessing the sequel.
"Yes, sir."

"What is your name?"
"La Pomponne."

"And your husband's?"
"Toupinet."

"Rue du Petit-Banquier?" said Popinot, turning over his register. "He
is in prison," he added, reading a note at the margin of the section

in which this family was described.
"For debt, my kind monsieur."

Popinot shook his head.
"But I have nothing to buy any stock for my truck; the landlord came

yesterday and made me pay up; otherwise I should have been turned
out."

Lavienne bent over his master, and whispered in his ear.
"Well, how much do you want to buy fruit in the market?"

"Why, my good monsieur, to carry on my business, I should want--Yes, I
should certainly want ten francs."

Popinot signed to Lavienne, who took ten francs out of a large bag,
and handed them to the woman, while the lawyer made a note of the loan

in his ledger. As he saw the thrill of delight that made the poor
hawker tremble, Bianchon understood the apprehensions that must have

agitated her on her way to the lawyer's house.
"You next," said Lavienne to the old man with the white beard.

Bianchon drew the servant aside, and asked him how long this audience
would last.

"Monsieur has had two hundred persons this morning, and there are
eight to be turned off," said Lavienne. "You will have time to pay

your early visit, sir."
"Here, my boy," said the lawyer, turning round and taking Horace by

the arm; "here are two addresses near this--one in the Rue de Seine,
and the other in the Rue de l'Arbalete. Go there at once. Rue de

Seine, a young girl has just asphyxiated herself; and Rue de
l'Arbalete, you will find a man to remove to your hospital. I will

wait breakfast for you."
Bianchon returned an hour later. The Rue du Fouarre was deserted; day

was beginning to dawn there; his uncle had gone up to his rooms; the
last poor wretch whose misery the judge had relieved was departing,

and Lavienne's money bag was empty.
"Well, how are they going on?" asked the old lawyer, as the doctor

came in.
"The man is dead," replied Bianchon; "the girl will get over it."

Since the eye and hand of a woman had been lacking, the flat in which
Popinot lived had assumed an aspect in harmony with its master's. The

indifference of a man who is absorbed in one dominant idea had set its
stamp of eccentricity on everything. Everywhere lay unconquerable

dust, every object was adapted to a wrong purpose with a pertinacity
suggestive of a bachelor's home. There were papers in the flower

vases, empty ink-bottles on the tables, plates that had been
forgotten, matches used as tapers for a minute when something had to

be found, drawers or boxes half-turned out and left unfinished; in
short, all the confusion and vacancies resulting from plans for order

never carried out. The lawyer's private room, especially disordered by
this incessant rummage, bore witness to his unresting pace, the hurry

of a man overwhelmed with business, hunted by contradictory
necessities. The bookcase looked as if it had been sacked; there were

books scattered over everything, some piled up open, one on another,
others on the floor face downwards; registers of proceedings laid on

the floor in rows, lengthwise, in front of the shelves; and that floor
had not been polished for two years.

The tables and shelves were covered with ex votos, the offerings of
the grateful poor. On a pair of blue glass jars which ornamented the

chimney-shelf there were two glass balls, of which the core was made
up of many-colored fragments, giving them the appearance of some

singular natural product. Against the wall hung frames of artificial
flowers, and decorations in which Popinot's initials were surrounded

by hearts and everlasting flowers. Here were boxes of elaborate and
useless cabinet work; there letter-weights carved in the style of work

done by convicts in penal servitude. These masterpieces of patience,
enigmas of gratitude, and withered bouquets gave the lawyer's room the

appearance of a toyshop. The good man used these works of art as
hiding-places which he filled with bills, worn-out pens, and scraps of

paper. All these patheticwitnesses to his divinecharity were thick
with dust, dingy, and faded.

Some birds, beautifully stuffed, but eaten by moth, perched in this
wilderness of trumpery, presided over by an Angora cat, Madame

Popinot's pet, restored to her no doubt with all the graces of life by
some impecunious naturalist, who thus repaid a gift of charity with a

perennial treasure. Some local artist whose heart had misguided his
brush had painted portraits of M. and Madame Popinot. Even in the

bedroom there were embroidered pin-cushions, landscapes in cross-
stitch, and crosses in folded paper, so elaborately cockled as to show

the senseless labor they had cost.
The window-curtains were black with smoke, and the hangings absolutely

colorless. Between the fireplace and the large square table at which
the magistrate worked, the cook had set two cups of coffee on a small

table, and two armchairs, in mahogany and horsehair, awaited the uncle
and nephew. As daylight, darkened by the windows, could not penetrate

to this corner, the cook had left two dips burning, whose unsnuffed
wicks showed a sort of mushroom growth, giving the red light which

promises length of life to the candle from slowness of combustion--a
discovery due to some miser.

"My dear uncle, you ought to wrap yourself more warmly when you go
down to that parlor."

"I cannot bear to keep them waiting, poor souls!--Well, and what do
you want of me?"

"I have come to ask you to dine to-morrow with the Marquise d'Espard."
"A relation of ours?" asked Popinot, with such genuineabsence of mind