end to all pretence of being in funds, for I could not take
my clothes out of the hotel without asking Madame F.'s
leave. I remember, however, how surprised she was at
my asking her instead of removing the clothes on the
sly, shooting the moon being a common trick in our
quarter.
It was the first time that I had been in a French
pawnshop. One went through grandiose stone portals
(marked, of course, «
Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité"-they
write that even over the police stations in France) into a
large, bare room like a school classroom, with a counter
and rows of benches. Forty or fifty people were waiting.
One handed one's pledge over the counter and sat down.
Presently, when the clerk had assessed its value he
would call out, « Numéro such and such, will you take
fifty francs?" Sometimes it was only fifteen francs, or
ten, or five-whatever it was, the whole room knew it.
As I came in the clerk called with an air of offence,
«
Numéro 83-here!" and gave a little whistle and a
beckon, as though calling a dog.
Numéro 83 stepped to
the counter; he was an old bearded man, with an over-
coat buttoned up at the neck and frayed trouser-ends.
Without a word the clerk shot the bundle across the
counter-evidently it was worth nothing. It fell to the
ground and came open, displaying four pairs of men's
woollen pants.