No painter of manners has ventured to initiate us--perhaps out of
modesty--into the really curious privacy of certain Parisian
existences, into the secret of the dwellings whence emerge such
fresh and elegant toilets, such brilliant women, who rich on the
surface, allow the signs of very doubtful comfort to peep out in
every part of their home. If, here, the picture is too boldly
drawn, if you find it tedious in places, do not blame the
description, which is, indeed, part and parcel of my story; for
the appearance of the rooms inhabited by his two neighbors had a
great influence on the feelings and hopes of Hippolyte Schinner.

The house belonged to one of those proprietors in whom there is a
foregone and profound horror of repairs and decoration, one of
the men who regard their position as Paris house-owners as a
business. In the vast chain of moral species, these people hold a
middle place between the miser and the usurer. Optimists in their
own interests, they are all faithful to the Austrian status quo.
If you speak of moving a cupboard or a door, of opening the most
indispensable air-hole, their eyes flash, their bile rises, they
rear like a frightened horse. When the wind blows down a few
chimney-pots they are quite ill, and deprive themselves of an
evening at the Gymnase or the Porte-Saint-Martin Theatre, "on
account of repairs." Hippolyte, who had seen the performance
gratis of a comical scene with Monsieur Molineux as concerning
certain decorative repairs in his studio, was not surprised to
see the dark greasy paint, the oily stains, spots, and other
disagreeable accessories that varied the woodwork. And these
stigmata of poverty are not altogether devoid of poetry in an
artist's eyes.