he immediately
commenced a conversation; and it occurred to me that here in the very
centre of the Kingdom of Dust was the place to gather details of the
history of Parisian rag-picking--particularly as I could do so from
the lips of one who looked like the oldest inhabitant.

I began my inquiries, and the old woman gave me most interesting
answers--she had been one of the ceteuces who sat daily before the
guillotine and had taken an active part among the women who signalised
themselves by their violence in the revolution. While we were talking
she said suddenly: 'But m'sieur must be tired standing,' and dusted a
rickety old stool for me to sit down. I hardly liked to do so for many
reasons; but the poor old woman was so civil that I did not like to
run the risk of hurting her by refusing, and moreover the conversation
of one who had been at the taking of the Bastille was so interesting
that I sat down and so our conversation went on.

While we were talking an old man--older and more bent and wrinkled
even than the woman--appeared from behind the shanty. 'Here is
Pierre,' said she. 'M'sieur can hear stories now if he wishes, for
Pierre was in everything, from the Bastille to Waterloo.' The old man
took another stool at my request and we plunged into a sea of
revolutionary reminiscences. This old man, albeit clothed like a
scarecrow, was like any one of the six veterans.

I was now sitting in the centre of the low hut with the woman on my
left hand and the man on my right, each of them being somewhat in
front of me. The place was full of all sorts of curious objects of
lumber, and of many things that I wished far away. In one corner was a
heap of rags which seemed to move from the number of vermin it
contained, and in the other a heap of bones whose odour was something
shocking. Every now and then, glancing at the heaps, I could see the
gleaming eyes of some of the rats which infested the place. These
loathsome objects were bad enough, but what looked even more dreadful
was an old butcher's axe with an iron handle stained with clots of
blood leaning up against the wall on the right hand side. Still, these
things did not give me much concern. The talk of the two old people
was so fascinating that I stayed on and on, till the evening came and
the dust heaps threw dark shadows over the vales between them.

After a time I began to grow uneasy. I could not tell how or why, but
somehow I did not feel satisfied. Uneasiness