bottom, and of many
colours--like Joseph's coat. As for my linen, I will only say that the
washerwomen have struck work, as they have no fuel. I believe my shirt
was once white, but I am not sure. I invested a few weeks ago in a pair
of cheap boots. They are my torment. They have split in various places,
and I wear a pair of gaiters--purple, like those of a respectable
ecclesiastic, to cover the rents. I bought them on the Boulevard, and at
the same stall I bought a bright blue handkerchief which was going
cheap; this I wear round my neck. My upper man resembles that of a
dog-stealer, my lower man that of a bishop. My buttons are turning my
hair grey. When I had more than one change of raiment these appendages
remained in their places, now they drop off as though I were a moulting
fowl. I have to pin myself together elaborately, and whenever I want to
get anything out of my pocket I have cautiously to unpin myself, with
the dread of falling to pieces before my eyes. For my food, I allowance
myself, in order to eke out as long as possible my resources. I dine and
breakfast at a second-class restaurant. Cat, dog, rat, and horse are
very well as novelties, but taken habitually, they do not assimilate
with my inner man. Horse, doctors say, is heating; I only wish it would
heat me. I give this description of my existence, as it is that of many
others. Those who have means, and those who have none, unless these
means are in Paris, row in the same boat.

The society at my second-class restaurant is varied. Many are regular
customers, and we all know each other. There are officers who come there
whenever they get leave from outside--hardy, well-set fellows, who take
matters philosophically and professionally. They make the most of their
holiday, and enjoy themselves without much thought of the morrow. Then
there are tradesmen who wear kepis, as they belong to the National
Guard. They are not in such good spirits. Their fortunes are ebbing
away, and in their hearts I think they would, although their cry is
still "no surrender," be glad if all were over. They talk in low tones,
and pocket a lump of the sugar which they are given with their coffee.
Occasionally an ex-dandy comes in. I see him look anxiously around to
make sure that no other dandy sees him in so unfashionable a resort. The
dandy keeps to himself, and eyes us haughtily, for we are too common
folk for the like of him. Traviatas, too, are not wanting in the
second-cla