"This is it," she said, entering first.

Was it a miser, was it an artist dying in penury, was it a cynic to
whom the world was naught, or some religious soul detached from life,
who had occupied this apartment? That triple question might well be
asked by one who breathed the odor of that poverty, who saw the greasy
spots upon the papers yellow with smoke, the blackened ceilings, the
dusty windows with their casement panes, the discolored floor-bricks,
the wainscots layered with a sort of sticky glaze. A damp chill came
from the chimneys with their mantels of painted stone, surmounted by
mirrors in panels of the style of the seventeenth century. The
apartment was square, like the house, and looked out upon the inner
court, which could not now be seen because of the darkness.

"Who has lived here?" asked Godefroid of the priest.

"A former councillor of the parliament, a great-uncle of madame,
Monsieur de Boisfrelon. After the Revolution he fell into dotage; but
he did not die until 1832, at the age of ninety-six. Madame could not
at first make up her mind to let his rooms to a stranger, but she
finds she cannot afford to lose the rent."

"Madame will have the apartment cleaned and furnished in a manner to
satisfy monsieur," said Manon.

"That will depend on the arrangement you make with her," said the
priest. "You have here a fine parlor, a large sleeping-room and
closet, and those little rooms in the angle will make an excellent
study. It is the same arrangement as in my apartment below, also in