Summoned one evening at dusk to the sick chamber of a countryman, I
realized the shadows of life in Paris. From the dazzling Boulevard the
cab soon wound through dim thoroughfares, up a deserted acclivity, to a
gloomy porch. A cold mist was falling, and I heard the bell sound
through a vaulted arch with desolate echoes. When the massive door
opened, a lamp suspended from a chain revealed a paved _entresol_ and
broad staircase; there was something prison-like even in the patrician
dimensions of the edifice; the light nickered at every gust. Ascending,
I pulled a _cordon bleu_, and was admitted into the apartment. It
consisted of four places or rooms, the furniture of which was in the
neatest French style, both of wood and tapestry; but the fireplace was
narrow, and so ill-constructed that while the heat ascended the chimney
the smoke entered the room. A nurse, with one of those keen,
self-possessed faces and that efficient manner so often encountered in
Paris, ushered me to the invalid's presence. He was a fair specimen of a
philosophic bachelor inured to the life of the French metropolis;
everything about him was in good taste, from the model of the lamp to
the cover of the arm-chair; and yet an indescribable cheerlessness
pervaded his elegant lodging.
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