"Pardon, monsieur," said he, "I do not understand you."
"Pretty—very pretty lodgers," said I.
"You are facetious, monsieur," said the concierge, smiling.
"Not at all," said I; "have I not seen (a sad lie) a very pretty face at one of the windows on the back court?"
"I do not think it, monsieur."
"And then there are no female lodgers?"
"Pardon, monsieur—there are several."
Here the little concierge was interrupted by a lodger, and I could ask no more.
I still, however, kept up my scrutiny of the attic window—observed closely every female foot that glanced about the neighboring courts, and remitted sadly my attention to the Grammaire des Grammaires, in the quiet room of my demure friend the abbé.
Sometimes, in my fancies, the object of wonder was a young maiden of the noblesse, who, for imputed family crimes, had hid herself in so humble a quarter. Sometimes I pictured the occupant of the chamber as the suffering daughter of some miserly parent, with trace of noble blood—filial, yet dependent in her degradation. Sometimes I imagined her the daughter of shame—the beloved of a doating, and too late repentant mother—shunning the face of a world that had seduced her with its smiles, and that now made smiles the executioners of its punishment.