h he always carries in quantities
about his person and spends lavishly whenever he wishes to enjoy
himself. So he is very popular among a certain class of women, and the
people who have put him where he is, have never perhaps been loved as
much as Ambroise.

In the middle of the garden, in a little lake shaded by a willow-tree
and bordered by plants, is a swan. With one stroke of its leg it can
swim from one side of the pond to the other, and although it crosses it
a hundred times a day and catches gold fishes to while away the time, it
never thinks of wandering away.

Further on, in a line against the wall, are some cages for rare animals
from foreign lands destined for the Museum of Paris. Most of the cages,
however, were empty. In front of one, in a narrow grated yard, a convict
was teaching a young wild-cat to obey commands like a dog. Hasn't this
man had enough of slavery himself? Why does he torment this poor little
beast? The lashes with which he is threatened he gives the wild-cat,
which, some day, will probably take its revenge by jumping over the iron
railing and killing the swan.

One moonlit evening, we decided to take a stroll through the streets
known to be frequented by _filles de joie_. They are very numerous. The
navy, the artillery, the infantry, each has its own particular streets,
without mentioning the penitentiary, which covers a whole district of
the city. Seven parallel streets ending at its walls, compose what is
called Keravel, and are filled by the mistresses of jailers and
convicts. They are old frame houses, crowded together, with every door
and window closed tight. No sound issues from them, nobody is seen
coming out, and there are no lights in the windows; at the end of each
street is a lamp-post which the wind sways from side to side, thus
making its long yellow rays oscillate on the sidewalk. The rest of the
quarter is in absolute darkness. In the moonlight, these silent houses
with their uneven roofs projected fantastic glimmerings.

When do they open? At unknown hours, at the most silent time of the
darkest nights. Then comes the jailer who has slipped away from his
watch, or the convict who has managed to escape from the prison, though
sometimes they arrive together, aiding and abetting each other; then,
when daylight dawns, the jailer turns his head away and nobody is the
wiser.

In the sailor's district, on the contrary, everything is open and
above-board. The disreputable hou