This delicate attention won for Rodolph the entire trust and confidence of the melancholy porter, who, touching the brim of his hat, said, in a deep bass voice worthy of being employed in a cathedral: "We shall give the gentleman every satisfaction as porters, and, doubtless, he will act the same by us as a lodger; 'birds of a feather flock together,' as the proverb says." Then, interrupting himself, M. Pipelet anxiously added, "Providing, sir, you are not a painter!" "No, I am not a painter, but a plain merchant's clerk." "My most humble duty to you, sir. I congratulate you that Nature did not make you one of those monsters called artists." "Artists, monsters!" returned Rodolph. "Tell me, pray, why you style them so." Instead of replying, M. Pipelet elevated his clasped hands towards the ceiling, and allowed a heavy sound, between a grunt and a groan, to escape his overcharged breast. "You must know, sir," said Madame Pipelet, in a low tone, to Rodolph, "that painters have embittered Alfred's life; they have worried my poor old dear almost out of his senses, and made him half stupefied, as you see him now." Then speaking loud, she added, in a caressing tone, "Oh, never mind the blackguard, there's a dear, but try and forget all about it, or you will be ill, and unable to eat the nice tripe I have got for your dinner." "Let us hope I shall have courage and firmness enough for all things," replied M. Pipelet, with a dignified and resigned air; "but he has done me much harm; he has been my persecutor, almost my executioner,--long have I suffered, but now I despise him! Ah," said he, turning to Rodolph, "never allow a painter to enter your doors; they are the plague--the ruin--the destruction of a house!" "You have, then, had a painter lodging with you, I presume?" "Unhappily, sir, I did have one," replied M. Pipelet, with much bitterness, "and that one named Cabrion. Ah!" At the recollections brought back by this name, the porter's declaration of courage and endurance utterly failed him, and again his clenched fists were raised, as though to invoke the vengeance he had so lately described himself as despising. "And was this individual the last occupant of the chamber I am about engaging?" inquired Rodolph. "No, no! The last lodger was an excellent young man named M. Germain. No, this Cabrion had the room before he came. Ah, sir, since Cabrion left, he has all but driven me stark staring mad!" "Did you, then, so much regret him?" asked Rodolph.