going out. To this end he carried off his garments, and left him instead
the disguise under which we have seen him. Nevertheless, the famous
"Manual" continued to make very slow progress, for Rodolphe had no
genius whatever for this kind of literature. The uncle avenged himself
for this lazy indifference on the great subject of chimneys by making
his nephew undergo a host of annoyances. Sometimes he cut short his
commons, and frequently stopped the supply of tobacco.

One Sunday, after having sweated blood and ink upon the great chapter of
ventilators, Rodolphe broke the pen, which was burning his fingers, and
went out to walk--in his "park." As if on purpose to plague him, and
excite his envy the more, he could not cast a single look about him
without perceiving the figure of a smoker on every window.

On the gilt balcony of a new house opposite, an exquisite in his
dressing gown was biting off the end of an aristocratic "Pantellas"
cigar. A story above, an artist was sending before him an odorous cloud
of Turkish tobacco from his amber-mouthed pipe. At the window of a
_brasserie_, a fat German was crowning a foaming tankard, and emitting,
with the regularity of a machine, the dense puffs that escaped from his
meershaum. On the other side, a group of workmen were singing as they
passed on their way to the barriers, their "throat-scorchers" between
their teeth. Finally, all the other pedestrians visible in the street
were smoking.

"Woe is me!" sighed Rodolphe, "except myself and my uncle's chimneys,
all creation is smoking at this hour!" And he rested his forehead on the
bar of the balcony, and thought how dreary life was.

Suddenly, a burst of long and musical laughter parted under his feet.