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 to pass them over lightly for the sake of my white-haired little marquise. Whenever I want to show an English friend what an enchanting creature a Frenchwoman of the people can be, I make a point of passing through her street, for the pleasure of looking in on her, and saying, "Good-day" to my old friend. The concierge, should he or she happen to be disagreeable, can do a singular lot of mischief, and make the lodger's life a burden to him. If you are out, friends who call can be sent up several flights of stairs for nothing; if you are in, your callers will be assured you are out. Letters can be held over, mislaid, or forgotten; your servants can be set by the ears in the concierge's parlour; evil reports can be spread of you in the neighbourhood; hints given to trades-people against your solvency. All these things I have known to happen to persons in discordant relations with their concierge; so that it is recognised in Paris that if the concierge does not like you, the best thing you can do is to pack up your things, pay a term in advance, and go.

The rag-picker of Paris is a familiar figure. To him belongs, I know not why, some of the glory of romance. Everybody feels a sneaking tenderness for the rag-picker. When, some years ago, M. Poubelle, the Prefect of Police, decided that the rubbish of Paris was no longer to be left outside along the pavements, but that