So, though I constantly hear terrible tales of the wicked doings of the Paris _concierge_, I have to pass them over lightly for the sake of my white-haired little marquise. Whenever I want to show an English friend what an enchanting creature a Frenchwoman of the people can be, I make a point of passing through her street, for the pleasure of looking in on her, and saying, “Good-day” to my old friend. The _concierge_, should he or she happen to be disagreeable, can do a singular lot of mischief, and make the lodger’s life a burden to him. If you are out, friends who call can be sent up several flights of stairs for nothing; if you are in, your callers will be assured you are out. Letters can be held over, mislaid, or forgotten; your servants can be set by the ears in the _concierge_’s parlour; evil reports can be spread of you in the neighbourhood; hints given to trades-people against your solvency. All these things I have known to happen to persons in discordant relations with their _concierge_; so that it is recognised in Paris that if the _concierge_ does not like you, the best thing you can do is to pack up your things, pay a term in advance, and go. The rag-picker of Paris is a familiar figure. To him belongs, I know not why, some of the glory of romance. Everybody feels a sneaking tenderness for the rag-picker. When, some years ago, M. Poubelle, the Prefect of Police, decided that the rubbish of Paris was no longer to be left outside along the pavements, but that each house should have its big refuse-box, called ever since by his name, there was a general uproar in the Press. What! disturb the amiable customs of the interesting rag-picker! Diminish the income of these delicious Parisians!