who dwell in this earthly paradise. He held his long staff upon one shoulder, and I had the idea, sinister enough, that it was crushing his body of a spectre down into the pavement. I know not how the impression came, but it seemed to me that this devil of a stick had the nature of a heavy cross reposing on his shoulder; I had pain to prevent myself turning, to find if in truth ‘I had them’ as your drunkards say. Then the young man called out: ‘Here’s a shilling for you, my friend!’ But my old did not budge, answering always: ‘Sir, let me rest in your doorway!’ As you may well imagine, _monsieur_, we were all in the silence of astonishment, I pulling away at my bell next door, which was not ringing, seeing I took care it did not; and those two young people regarding my Old with eyes round as moons, out of their pigeon-house, which I could well see was prettily feathered. Their hearts were making seesaw, I could tell; for at that age one is still impressionable. Then the girl put herself to whispering, and her husband said those two words of your young ‘gentlemen,’ ‘Awfully sorry!’ and put out his hand, which held now a coin large as a saucer. But again my Old only said: ‘Sir, let me rest in your doorway!’ And the young man drew back his hand quickly as if he were ashamed, and saying again, ‘Sorry!’ he shut the door. I have heard many sighs in my time--they are the good little accompaniments to the song we sing, we others who are in poverty; but the sigh my Old pushed then--how can I tell you--had an accent as if it came from Her, the faithful companion, who marches holding the hands of men and women so that they may never make the grand mistake to imagine themselves for a moment the good God. Yes, _monsieur_, it was as if pursued by Suffering herself, that bird of the night, never tired of flying in this world where they talk always of cutting her wings. Then I took my resolution, and, coming gently from behind, said: ‘My Old--what is it? Can I do anything for you?’ Without looking at me, he spoke as to himself: ‘I shall never find one who will let me rest in his doorway. For my sin I shall wander forever!’ At this moment, _monsieur_, there came to me an inspiration so clear that I marvelled I had not already had it a long time before. He thought himself the Wandering Jew! I had well found it. This was certainly his fixed idea, of a cracked old man! And I said: ‘My Jew, do you know this? In doing what you do, you have become as Christ, in a world of wandering Jews!’ But he did not seem to hear me, and only just as we arrived at our palace became again that old gentle being, thinking never of himself.” Behind the smoke of his cigarette, a smile curled Ferrand’s red lips under his long nose a little on one side.