University of Virginia Library

MY FRENCH NEIGHBOR.

I often amuse myself by watching from my window (which by
the by is tolerably elevated) the movements of the teeming little
world below me; and as I am on sociable terms with the porter
and his wife, I gather from them, as they light my fire, or serve
my breakfast, anecdotes of all my fellow-lodgers. I have been
somewhat curious in studying a little antique Frenchman, who occupies
one of the jolie chambres à garçon already mentioned. He
is one of those superannuated veterans who flourished before the
revolution, and have weathered all the storms of Paris, in consequence,
very probably, of being fortunately too insignificant to attract
attention. He has a small income, which he manages with
the skill of a French economist: appropriating so much for his

lodgings, so much for his meals, so much for his visits to St.
Cloud and Versailles, and so much for his seat at the theatre. He
has resided at the hotel for years, and always in the same chamber,
which he furnishes at his own expense. The decorations of
the room mark his various ages. There are some gallant pictures,
which he hung up in his younger days, with a portrait of a
lady of rank, whom he speaks tenderly of, dressed in the old
French taste, and a pretty opera dancer, pirouetting in a hoop
petticoat, who lately died at a good old age. In a corner of this
picture is stuck a prescription for rheumatism, and below it stands
an easy-chair. He has a small parrot at the window, to amuse
him when within doors, and a pug-dog to accompany him in his
daily peregrinations. While I am writing, he is crossing the
court to go out. He is attired in his best coat, of sky-blue, and
is doubtless bound for the Tuileries. His hair is dressed in the
old style, with powdered ear-locks and a pigtail. His little dog
trips after him, sometimes on four legs, sometimes on three, and
looking as if his leather small-clothes were too tight for him.
Now the old gentleman stops to have a word with an old crony
who lives in the entre-sol, and is just returning from his promenade.
Now they take a pinch of snuff together; now they pull
out huge red cotton handkerchiefs, (those “flags of abomination,”
as they have well been called,) and blow their noses most sonorously.
Now they turn to make remarks upon their two little
dogs, who are exchanging the morning's salutation; now they
part, and my old gentleman stops to have a passing word with
the porter's wife: and now he sallies forth, and is fairly launched
upon the town for the day.

No man is so methodical as a complete idler, and none so
scrupulous in measuring and portioning out his time as he whose

time is worth nothing. The old gentleman in question has his
exact hour for rising, and for shaving himself by a small mirror
hung against his casement. He sallies forth at a certain hour
every morning, to take his cup of coffee and his roll at a certain
café, where he reads the papers. He has been a regular admirer
of the lady who presides at the bar, and always stops to have a
little badinage with her, en passant. He has his regular walks
on the Boulevards and in the Palais Royal, where he sets his
watch by the petard fired off by the sun at mid-day. He has his
daily resort in the Garden of the Tuileries, to meet with a knot
of veteran idlers like himself, who talk on pretty much the same
subjects whenever they meet. He has been present at all the
sights and shows and rejoicings of Paris for the last fifty years;
has witnessed the great events of the revolution; the guillotining
of the king and queen; the coronation of Bonaparte; the capture
of Paris, and the restoration of the Bourbons. All these he speaks
of with the coolness of a theatrical critic; and I question whether
he has not been gratified by each in its turn; not from any inherent
love of tumult, but from that insatiable appetite for spectacle,
which prevails among the inhabitants of this metropolis. I
have been amused with a farce, in which one of these systematic
old triflers is represented. He sings a song detailing his whole
day's round of insignificant occupations, and goes to bed delighted
with the idea that his next day will be an exact repetition
of the same routine: