But at Paris nothing lasts; the current of life carries us along, like
the seaweed torn from the rock; the houses are vessels which take mere
passengers. How many different faces have I already seen pass along the
landing-place belonging to our attics! How many companions of a few days
have disappeared forever! Some are lost in that medley of the living
which whirls continually under the scourge of necessity, and others in
that resting-place of the dead, who sleep under the hand of God!

Peter the bookbinder is one of these last. Wrapped up in selfishness, he
lived alone and friendless, and he died as he had lived. His loss was
neither mourned by any one, nor disarranged anything in the world; there
was merely a ditch filled up in the graveyard, and an attic emptied in
our house.

It is the same which my new neighbor has inhabited for the last few days.

To say truly (now that I am quite awake, and my ill humor is gone with my
nightcap)--to say truly, this new neighbor, although rising earlier than
suits my idleness, is not the less a very good man: he carries his
misfortunes, as few know how to carry their good fortunes, with
cheerfulness and moderation.

But fate has cruelly tried him. Father Chaufour is but the wreck of a
man. In the place of one of his arms hangs an empty sleeve; his left leg
is made by the turner, and he drags the right along with difficulty; but
above these ruins rises a calm and happy face. While looking upon his
countenance, radiant with a serene energy, while listening to his voice,
the tone of which has, so to speak, the accent of goodness, we see that
the soul has remained entire in the half-destroyed covering. The
fortress is a little damaged, as Father Chaufour says, but the garrison