The Paris pawnshop has the aspect of quite an ordinary house, and nothing would particularly attract to it the attention of an observer—not even the incessant stream of its visitors in and out—were it not that these wear a suspiciously stealthy air as they enter or quit the place; a sort of shame on their arrival and an uneasy haste at their departure.
It is not, as a rule, necessary for the student of human life, who wishes to see what occurs within a Paris pawnshop, to pledge or redeem anything himself; the crowd is so large that the absence of his parcel will be unperceived, and everyone is so intent on his or her own errand that not a glance, probably, will be bestowed upon him. “How much will you lend me on this?”—such is the absorbing thought, the sole preoccupation, which deprives the visitors of all curiosity concerning what is around them.
THE OPERA HOUSE.
Entering one of these loan offices, a peculiar odour—which a French writer with a delicate nose has described as something between the smell of a barrack and that of a hospital—gives the visitor his first impression of the place. Scrupulously clean as the depôt is kept, the air is to some extent affected by the malodorous parcels brought in by the customers. Even the frequent opening of the doors scarcely relieves the atmosphere, which is characterised by that most unbearable of all atmospheric qualities—[{161}]stuffiness. But the heroic student of life, bent on observation, fortifies his nose by the aid of philosophy; and instead of betaking himself to flight, sits down on one of the benches ranged round the room and affects to await his turn. This room is divided into two by a partition fitted with doors, one part accommodating the public, the other being reserved for the employés. The public compartment is generally very sombre, with no other light than that which steals through chance apertures: the shopmen’s compartment is thoroughly illuminated. The sun has been accused by a French writer of flinging his beams into these pawnshops in order to reveal some of the most lamentable scenes and acts of human life. But, on the other hand, the assistants require a good light to examine the miscellaneous articles submitted to their appraisement.
One curious feature is the silence which reigns in these establishments. The customers seem to have no tongues, and the money-lenders, by no means prodigal of words, communicate with their clients chiefly by looks and gestures. After all, there is little need for conversation, the business of every visitor being ostensible, and the employés having simply to say that they will lend such and such a sum on the article proposed, or—what sickens the heart of some poor wretches who wish to raise the price of a loaf of bread or a bundle of firewood—that they will lend nothing on a worthless rag.
ENTRANCE TO THE MONT-DE-PIÉTÉ, CHAUSSÉE D’ANTIN.