here, a wheat-ear; here, a whole life epitomized; but here, too, all
the miseries of that life. A ray of light falling from heaven as if by
special favor on those puny flowers and the vigorous wheat-ear brought
out in full relief the dust, the grease, and that nameless color,
peculiar to Parisian squalor, made of dirt, which crusted and spotted
the damp walls, the worm-eaten balusters, the disjointed
window-casings, and the door originally red. Presently the cough of an
old woman, and a heavy female step, shuffling painfully in list
slippers, announced the coming of the mother of Ida Gruget. The
creature opened the door and came out upon the landing, looked up, and
said:--

"Ah! is this Monsieur Bocquillon? Why, no? But perhaps you're his
brother. What can I do for you? Come in, monsieur."

Jules followed her into the first room, where he saw, huddled
together, cages, household utensils, ovens, furniture, little
earthenware dishes full of food or water for the dog and the cats, a
wooden clock, bed-quilts, engravings of Eisen, heaps of old iron, all
these things mingled and massed together in a way that produced a most
grotesque effect,--a true Parisian dusthole, in which were not lacking
a few old numbers of the "Constitutionel."

Jules, impelled by a sense of prudence, paid no attention to the
widow's invitation when she said civilly, showing him an inner room:--

"Come in here, monsieur, and warm yourself."

Fearing to be overheard by Ferragus, Jules asked himself whether it
were not wisest to conclude the arrangement he had come to make with