Standing and
watching this poor wretch prodding in a gutter after hopeless
infinitesimals, I have pictured to myself what emotions would surge
through his breast if a New York garbage-barrel were to be set down
before him. I am not sure he would be able to refrain from fainting
away at sight of such a mine of wealth. Happy ragpicker of New York
who takes his morning stroll and his lordly pick from the contents of
the teeming barrels our servants set out on the pavement for him! _He_
does not have to work at night: he is a sort of prince, compared to
his Paris fellow. If a Paris ragpicker could have the monopoly of the
barrels in a single block between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, I am
convinced he would retire from business at the end of ten years with
an independent fortune--that is, if with the New York barrels he could
have the Paris market and live on Paris fare. It is an old story that
in Paris nothing is wasted. The very mud in the streets is gathered up
and sold. There is a market for everything.
An important division of the army of blousards is that composed of the
street-sweepers of Paris. They share the Rue Mouffetard and the Place
Maubert with the ragpickers, and, like them, are scattered about in
various poorer quarters of the city. Ever-picturesque argot has given
them a name of ridicule, and calls them _les peintres_ and their
brooms their inspired brushes.
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