into the regions
beyond the Place of the Bastile, into the neighborhood of the Pantheon
or the Gobelins tapestry-mill, he has been jostled against, on the
narrow sidewalks of narrow streets, by thousands of them. They are not
such a conspicuous feature of the city's daily life now as they were
when the volcano of revolution was belching its lava torrent through
the streets; but they are there. They are not now occupied in the way
they were then; they make less noise; they dress more quietly; they
attend, in one way or other, to the business of getting a living. Some
are working at trades; some are playing at soldiers; some are keeping
cabarets; some are driving fiacres. I am morally certain the rascal
who drove me home from the Gymnase one night was a petroleum-flinger
at the most active period of his existence. "Give me your ticket,
cocher," I said to him; for the law requires the cabman to give to his
fare, without solicitation, a, ticket with his number, and the legal
rates of fare printed on it. He cracked his whip at the left ear of
his steed, and drove on without paying any attention. "Give me your
ticket," I repeated. This time he shrugged his shoulders--it requires
a really superhuman effort on the part of a Frenchman to refrain from
letting his shoulders fly up to his ears, whatever his determination
to control himself--but drove on in silence. Then I brandished my
umbrella, and punching him with that weapon in the back in an
energetic manner, repeated, "Cocher, oblige me with your ticket, tout
de suite." He turned round on his seat in a fury. "Ah, ca!" he roared,
thee-thou-ing me as an expression of his direst rage and power of
insult, "where hast thou come out of, then, that thou hast no sense
left thee at the last?" Yes, I am morally certain he helped burn the
Tuileries, that fellow!

Others of the former demons who howled in the Commune mobs are now
doing the congenial work of thievery which they did before the Commune
days, and especially during them. They are not the worst-looking of
the demons. A thief is generally a rather sleek-looking person in his
station. Rich thieves treat themselves to the best of broadcloth and
the shiniest of tall hats. Poor thieves usually at least shave their
faces, and try to look unforbidding. If they wear a blouse, it is
because they belong on a social scale which does not dream of wearing
a coat. The blousard of Paris may be either a thief or a working-man:
he is always t