With his little bundle tied to the end of his staff, Auguste started for Paris. When he saw the great city once more, he could not restrain a sigh. But he pulled his hat over his eyes and walked with lowered head, in dread of meeting some former acquaintance. However, it is no crime to be poor; why, then, should the unfortunate seem to avoid men's eyes when so many scoundrels go about with their heads in the air? Why should one be any more ashamed to say: "I haven't a sou," than to say: "I owe a hundred thousand francs"? Because in society we see and seek and care for none but those who have money; because we too often close our eyes to the source of the wealth of a multitude of schemers who cut a dash at the expense of the scores of families they have ruined, and who from their magnificent equipages look down in derision on those whom they have reduced to destitution; because we pardon all sorts of vices in the man who is able to cover them with gold, and refuse to pardon a trifling peccadillo in a poor devil; because we lavish attentions on a Messalina arrayed in silk and diamonds, and close our doors to a girl who has given herself for love to a man who cannot support her. All this is very sad, but it is all true. Auguste was careful not to go near Rue Saint-Georges; he went in the direction of the Marais. It was necessary that he should be most economical in his outlay, and he found in an old house on Rue de Berry, a closet, said to be furnished, on the sixth floor, which he could hire for fifteen francs a month. He paid half of the first month's rent in advance. The man who formerly passed his life in dissipation, who set the fashion in manners and style, who was sought after and fêted, for whom women disputed at parties, and whom they were proud to subjugate,--the brilliant Dalville found himself reduced to the necessity of occupying a garret and sleeping on a wretched pallet. When he entered the miserable den he had just hired, he could not control a feeling of regret, and he threw himself on a chair which wavered under him. As he glanced at the walls, only partially covered by a few tattered strips of paper; as he contemplated the furniture of his closet, and the tumbledown roofs near by, Auguste recalled old Dorfeuil's room; he remembered especially the old man's story and he dropped his head on his hands, saying: "And that did not reform me!"