In this year I was making a prolonged stay in Paris. I was very much in
love with a young lady who, though she returned my passion, so far
yielded to the wishes of her parents that she had promised not to see
me or to correspond with me for a year. I, too, had been compelled to
accede to these conditions under a vague hope of parental approval. During the term of probation I had promised to remain out of the
country and not to write to my dear one until the expiration of the
year. Naturally the time went heavily with me. There was not one of my own
family or circle who could tell me of Alice, and none of her own folk
had, I am sorry to say, sufficient generosity to send me even an
occasional word of comfort regarding her health and well-being. I spent
six months wandering about Europe, but as I could find no satisfactory
distraction in travel, I determined to come to Paris, where, at least,
I would be within easy hail of London in case any good fortune should
call me thither before the appointed time. That “hope deferred maketh
the heart sick” was never better exemplified than in my case, for in
addition to the perpetual longing to see the face I loved there was
always with me a harrowing anxiety lest some accident should prevent me
showing Alice in due time that I had, throughout the long period of
probation, been faithful to her trust and my own love. Thus, every
adventure which I undertook had a fierce pleasure of its own, for it
was fraught with possible consequences greater than it would have
ordinarily borne. Like all travellers I exhausted the places of most interest in the
first month of my stay, and was driven in the second month to look for
amusement whithersoever I might. Having made sundry journeys to the
better-known suburbs, I began to see that there was a _terra
incognita_, in so far as the guide book was concerned, in the social
wilderness lying between these attractive points. Accordingly I began
to systematise my researches, and each day took up the thread of my
exploration at the place where I had on the previous day dropped it. In the process of time my wanderings led me near Montrouge, and I saw
that hereabouts lay the Ultima Thule of social exploration—a country as
little known as that round the source of the White Nile. And so I
determined to investigate philosophically the chiffonier—his habitat,
his life, and his means of life. The job was an unsavoury one, difficult of accomplishment, and with
little hope of adequate reward. However, despite reason, obstinacy
prevailed, and I entered into my new investigation with a keener energy
than I could have summoned to aid me in any investigation leading to
any end, valuable or worthy. One day, late in a fine afternoon, toward the end of September, I
entered the holy of holies of the city of dust. The place was evidently
the recognised abode of a number of chiffoniers, for some sort of
arrangement was manifested in the formation of the dust heaps near the
road. I passed amongst these heaps, which stood like orderly sentries,
determined to penetrate further and trace dust to its ultimate
location. As I passed along I saw behind the dust heaps a few forms that flitted
to and fro, evidently watching with interest the advent of any stranger
to such a place. The district was like a small Switzerland, and as I
went forward my tortuous course shut out the path behind me. Presently I got into what seemed a small city or community of
chiffoniers. There were a number of shanties or huts, such as may be
met with in the remote parts of the Bog of Allan—rude places with
wattled walls, plastered with mud and roofs of rude thatch made from
stable refuse—such places as one would not like to enter for any
consideration, and which even in water-colour could only look
picturesque if judiciously treated. In the midst of these huts was one
of the strangest adaptations—I cannot say habitations—I had ever seen. An immense old wardrobe, the colossal remnant of some boudoir of
Charles VII, or Henry II, had been converted into a dwelling-house. The
double doors lay open, so that the entire ménage was open to public
view. In the open half of the wardrobe was a common sitting-room of
some four feet by six, in which sat, smoking their pipes round a
charcoal brazier, no fewer than six old soldiers of the First Republic,
with their uniforms torn and worn threadbare. Evidently they were of
the _mauvais sujet_ class; their bleary eyes and limp jaws told plainly
of a common love of absinthe; and their eyes had that haggard, worn
look of slumbering ferocity which follows hard in the wake of drink. The other side stood as of old, with its shelves intact, save that they
were cut to half their depth, and in each shelf of which there were
six, was a bed made with rags and straw. The half-dozen of worthies who
inhabited this structure looked at me curiously as I passed; and when I
looked back after going a little way I saw their heads together in a
whispered conference. I did not like the look of this at all, for the
place was very lonely, and the men looked very, very villainous. However, I did not see any cause for fear, and went on my way,
penetrating further and further into the Sahara. The way was tortuous
to a degree, and from going round in a series of semi-circles, as one
goes in skating with the Dutch roll, I got rather confused with regard
to the points of the compass. When I had penetrated a little way I saw, as I turned the corner of a
half-made heap, sitting on a heap of straw an old soldier with
threadbare coat. “Hallo!” said I to myself; “the First Republic is well represented here
in its soldiery.”

As I passed him the old man never even looked up at me, but gazed on
the ground with stolid persistency. Again I remarked to myself: “See
what a life of rude warfare can do! This old man’s curiosity is a thing
of the past.”

When I had gone a few steps, however, I looked back suddenly, and saw
that curiosity was not dead, for the veteran had raised his head and
was regarding me with a very queer expression. He seemed to me to look
very like one of the six worthies in the press. When he saw me looking
he dropped his head; and without thinking further of him I went on my
way, satisfied that there was a strange likeness between these old
warriors. Presently I met another old soldier in a similar manner. He, too, did
not notice me whilst I was passing. By this time it was getting late in the afternoon, and I began to think
of retracing my steps. Accordingly I turned to go back, but could see a
number of tracks leading between different mounds and could not
ascertain which of them I should take. In my perplexity I wanted to see
someone of whom to ask the way, but could see no one. I determined to
go on a few mounds further and so try to see someone—not a veteran.