to pay them a visit. The sun was feeble
that day; and after "posing" eight times, and
waiting while his wife gave an extra polish to
the plate; and, finally, for the ninth time
putting on that look of profound sagacity,
mingled with good-humour, which all people
try to get into their portraits, I was obliged
to give it up. The time was not wholly lost;
I had seen something of Monsieur Brison's
home in the time that I had waited, and this
was my chief object in going to him. Indeed
a portrait would have been of no manner
of use to me, and I half suspected myself
of a secret design in choosing such a dull day.
So I rose to go away; and, after remarking
upon the trouble to which I had put him,
held out two francs in my hand. Poverty
was written on his walls, and in his patched
blue blouse; but he resolutely refused my
offer, with a speech that would have brought
down an avalanche of applause on the stage
ot the Gymnase. if he had pronounced it there
in a tone a trifle more tragic than that in
which he then spoke, and had paused to take
the sense of the house on the propriety of his
sentiment. That man's cheerfulness puzzled
me. I strove to account for it upon philosophical
principles, and thought all daguerreotypers
in Paris must be cheerful, because
they live on the roofs, and are most subject
"to skyey influences." So I fell meditating
deeply upon this subject.

When I looked out again, it was getting
darker, and there was a slight fog, which made
some lights, a long way off, across the house-tops,
glimmer in a halo. Looking round iny
room, it had to me a drearier air than usual,
with its scanty furniture, and floor of polished
tiles. My fire was nearly out- if an Englishman
could give the name of fire to a few chips
of charcoal, shut up closely in a porcelain
cylinder, standing out in the room, and com-
municating with the chimney by a rusty
tin-pipe. I opened its little door; and, kneeling
down, was just in time to blow out the
last remains of vitality. The weather was
cold, but I did not care to light it again. It
was becoming too dark to read, and I determined
not to light my lamp. I sat down
again, and wrapped my dressing-gown about
me with a shiver. The great pipe, which my
friend Louis Raynal gave me, when he came
back from Africa, hung upon the wall. I sat
looking at its enormous bowl- carved into the
face of an Arab, with a fierce grin and small
black eyes- until I could scarcely see it;
though, now and then, I knew not why, it suddenly
became more distinct. When I was tired,
my eye wandered, and fixed itself upon the
carving of the Crucifixion on the mantelpiece.
This was of white wood, and consequently
remained distinct, for a longer time, in the
deepening twilight of the room. I was not
sorry when I could see it no longer. I would
have preferred that that carving had not
been in the room alone with me that afternoon.

It was growing darker still; and, as the
few objects near me faded away, and my
attention was no longer occupied, I heard
again the murmuring in the air, which had
troubled me at first; but this time it was
still more perplexing. Now and then, as I
listened, it seemed about to become deeper;
and then, with the utmost effort, I could not
hear it at all. It was its monotony (while it
lasted) that teased me. If any one of the
multitudinous noises, of which I supposed it
to be composed, would have predominated for
a moment, I should have been content. It
some clanging peal of bells would have
broken out near me, or come from a distance
upon a sudden shifting of the wind, I would
have lighted my lamp, and gone on with the
perusal of my book. But it was still the
same confusion of noises- so perfectly blended,
that although sometimes it became louder, no
distinct sound could be caught: as if, at a
certain moment, all its components increased,
in exact proportion, in order to preserve a
perfect monotony.

It is strange that this trifling fancy was
gradually sapping the foundations of my resolution
- holding me with so singular a fascination,
that I was compelled to abandon my
studies for that day. I began to suspect that
the sudden change, from a life of pleasure, to
one of solitary study, had wrought some
injury to my mind. I experienced a degree
of timidity and irresohition that I had never
known before. I had other strange fancies.
Once, while walking to and fro, in my room, I
had seen my features, darkly, in the glass,
and instinctively shrunk from looking there
again. Afterwards, on reflecting, I could not
divest myself of the notion that they were
not my features that I had seen there, but a
face wholly different. I sat down again, and
thought of going out and wandering in the
streets. I knew that, during the cold weather,
great wood fires were lighted at midnight, in
certain open places in the city, that the
houseless might not perish of the cold; and I
thought of spending the night by one of
these, and not returning to my room until day-light.

From this mood I was suddenly startled by
a noise, as of something falling on the floor
of the adjoining room. I was startled, because
I had always known that room to be
uninhabited; and as it communicated by a
door with my room, I knew that I should
have heard of any change in this respect. It
was one of those rooms, often met with in the
great houses of Paris (where each floor is
divided into many apartments, or, as we
should say in England, sets of chambers), into
which it had been found impossible to admit
sufficient daylight for a sitting-room. In such
a case, the usual course would have been to
let it with my room as a sleeping-chamber;
but I had declined it, and it had remained
unoccupied during the several years of my
residence there.