isfaction as porters, and,
doubtless, he will act the same by us as a lodger; 'birds of a feather
flock together,' as the proverb says." Then, interrupting himself, M.
Pipelet anxiously added, "Providing, sir, you are not a painter!"

"No, I am not a painter, but a plain merchant's clerk."

"My most humble duty to you, sir. I congratulate you that Nature did not
make you one of those monsters called artists."

"Artists, monsters!" returned Rodolph. "Tell me, pray, why you style
them so."

Instead of replying, M. Pipelet elevated his clasped hands towards the
ceiling, and allowed a heavy sound, between a grunt and a groan, to
escape his overcharged breast.

"You must know, sir," said Madame Pipelet, in a low tone, to Rodolph,
"that painters have embittered Alfred's life; they have worried my poor
old dear almost out of his senses, and made him half stupefied, as you
see him now." Then speaking loud, she added, in a caressing tone, "Oh,
never mind the blackguard, there's a dear, but try and forget all about
it, or you will be ill, and unable to eat the nice tripe I have got for
your dinner."

"Let us hope I shall have courage and firmness enough for all things,"
replied M. Pipelet, with a dignified and resigned air; "but he has done
me much harm; he has been my persecutor, almost my executioner,--long
have I suffered, but now I despise him! Ah," said he, turning to
Rodolph, "never allow a painter to enter your doors; they are the
plague--the ruin--the destruction of a house!"

"You have, then, had a painter lodging with you, I presume?"

"Unhappily, sir, I did have one," replied M. Pipelet, with much
bitterness, "and that one named Cabrion. Ah!"

At the recollections brought back by this name, the porter's declaration
of courage and endurance utterly failed him, and again his clenched
fists were raised, as though to invoke the vengeance he had so lately
described himself as despising.

"And was this individual the last occupant of the chamber I am about
engaging?" inquired Rodolph.

"No, no! The last lodger was an excellent young man named M. Germain.
No, this Cabrion had the room before he came. Ah, sir, since Cabrion
left, he has all but driven me stark staring mad!"

"Did you, then, so much regret him?" asked Rodolph.

"Regret him! Regret Cabrion!" screamed the astounded porter; "why, only
imagine, M. Bras Rouge paid him two quarters' rent to induce him to quit
the place, for, unluckily, he had taken hi