s do not even know
by sight; a pivot in the obscure machinery that disposes of misery and
things unclean; one of those men, in short, at sight of whom we are
prompted to remark that, "After all, we cannot do without them."

Stately Paris ignores the existence of these faces bleached by moral or
physical suffering; but, then, Paris is in truth an ocean that no line
can plumb. You may survey its surface and describe it; but no matter how
numerous and painstaking the toilers in this sea, there will always be
lonely and unexplored regions in its depths, caverns unknown, flowers
and pearls and monsters of the deep overlooked or forgotten by the
divers of literature. The Maison Vauquer is one of these curious
monstrosities.

Two, however, of Mme. Vauquer's boarders formed a striking contrast to
the rest. There was a sickly pallor, such as is often seen in anaemic
girls, in Mlle. Victorine Taillefer's face; and her unvarying expression
of sadness, like her embarrassed manner and pinched look, was in
keeping with the general wretchedness of the establishment in the Rue
Nueve-Saint-Genevieve, which forms a background to this picture; but her
face was young, there was youthfulness in her voice and elasticity
in her movements. This young misfortune was not unlike a shrub, newly
planted in an uncongenial soil, where its leaves have already begun
to wither. The outlines of her figure, revealed by her dress of the
simplest and cheapest materials, were also youthful. There was the same
kind of charm about her too slender form, her faintly colored face and
light-brown hair, that modern poets find in mediaeval statuettes; and a
sweet expression, a look of Christian resignation in the dark gray eyes.
She was pretty by force of contrast; if she had been happy, she would
have been charming. Happiness is the poetry of woman, as the toilette
is her tinsel. If the delightful excitement of a ball had made the pale
face glow with color; if the delights of a luxurious life had brought
the color to the wan cheeks that were slightly hollowed already; if love
had put light into the sad eyes, then Victorine might have ranked among
the fairest; but she lacked the two things which create woman a second
time--pretty dresses and love-letters.

A book might have been made of her story. Her father was persuaded that
he had sufficient reason for declining to acknowledge her, and allowed
her a bare six hundred francs a year; he had further taken measures