And to-day the black-edged visiting-card—“Pension de Famille. French and Piano Lessons. Moderate Terms”—appears no longer on the door. With her last remaining French _rentes_ passed the elder Mademoiselle Périvier. Gone, without a complaint, are the frail, frugal old spinsters. And M. Henri Rochette, on the eve of his release from prison, is growing a new beard. 4. THE AFFAIR OF THE COLLARS It is a popular superstition that amongst the smaller French bourgeoisie one day is like another day, and all days are empty, colourless and banal. None of the joys of life—none of its shocks and surprises—up there in the Durands’ gloomy and oppressive fifth-floor _appartement_. From morning till night, infinite monotony, relieved only by Madame Durand’s periodical altercations with the concierge, the tradespeople, and deaf and dim-eyed old Amélie, the cook. The family newspaper is the _Petit Journal_, because of its two _feuilletons_. In a corner a little, damaged piano, upon which angular and elderly Mademoiselle Durand laboriously picks out the _Polka des Joyeux_ and the _Valse Bleue_. In another corner Madame Durand knits away at a pink woollen shawl. And from a third corner M. Hippolyte Durand, in huge carpet slippers, tells his wife what has happened to him during the day. The omnibus that took him to his office was full; his lunch consisted of _navarin aux pommes_ and stewed pears; after leaving his bureau he played two games of dominoes with Dupont in the Café du Commerce, and the omnibus that brought him home was even fuller than that in which he travelled to business. “There should be more omnibuses in Paris,” remarks Madame Durand. “And how odious are the conductors!” exclaims elderly and embittered Mademoiselle Durand from the piano. Then lights out at eleven o’clock, and the dull, dreamless sleep of the unimaginative, the worthy. However, this popularly conceived idea of the life and mind of the smaller French bourgeoisie is something of a libel. Their existence is not eternally uneventful, nor their temperament hopelessly colourless. Now and again the dim, oppressive fifth-floor _appartements_ are shaken by “Affairs” quite as exciting and incoherent in their own way as those that have convulsed the Palace of Justice and Chamber of Deputies. There was once a Dreyfus Affair. There were also the Syveton and Steinheil Affairs. All three caused the Parisians (who dearly love imbroglios and incoherencies) to exclaim: “C’est le comble!”—in colloquial English: “It’s the limit!” But, in the Montparnasse quarter of Paris, there rages to-day an Affair that must be awarded the first place amongst all other Affairs for sheer confusion, dizziness and irresponsibility. Thus: