reminder of this promise the eyebrows of the apostle contracted into
a frown, his smile became petrified, his whole visage assumed an
expression of incredible hardness; but it was only for an instant. At
the bedside of their patients the physiognomies of these fashionable
doctors become expert in lying. In his most tender, most cordial manner,
he replied, disclosing a row of dazzling white teeth:

"What I promised shall be done, Mrs. Jenkins. And now, go in quickly and
shut your window. The fog is cold this morning."

Yes, the fog was cold, but white as snow mist; and, filling the air
outside the glasses of the large brougham, it brightened with soft
gleams the unfolded newspaper in the doctor's hands. Over yonder, in the
populous quarters, confined and gloomy, in the Paris of tradesman
and mechanic, that charming morning haze which lingers in the great
thoroughfares is not known. The bustle of awakening, the going and
coming of the market-carts, of the omnibuses, of the heavy trucks
rattling their old iron, have early and quickly cut it up, unravelled
and scattered it. Every passer-by carries away a little of it in a
threadbare overcoat, a muffler which shows the woof, and coarse gloves
rubbed one against the other. It soaks through the thin blouses, and
the mackintoshes thrown over the working skirts; it melts away at every
breath that is drawn, warm from sleeplessness or alcohol; it is engulfed
in the depths of empty stomachs, dispersed in the shops as they are
opened, and the dark courts, or even to the fireless attics. That is
the reason why there remains so little of it out of doors. But in that
spacious and grandiose region of Paris, which was inhabited by Jenkins's
clients, on those wide boulevards planted with trees, and those deserted
quays, the fog hovered without a stain, like so many sheets, with
waverings and cotton wool-like flakes. The effect was of a place