Suddenly, somewhere in the lower part of the city, he espied a
card tacked outside of a window bearing this inscription, "Decorator
wanted." A man inside was painting one of the old-fashioned iron
tea-trays common in those days. Monsieur took off his hat, pointed to
the card, then to himself, seized the brush, and before the man could
protest had covered the bottom with morning-glories so pink and fresh
that his troubles ended on the spot. The first week he earned six
dollars; but then this was to be paid at the end of it. For these six
days he subsisted on one meal a day. This he ate at a restaurant where
at night he washed dishes and blacked the head waiter's boots. When
Saturday came, and the money was counted out in his hand, he thrust it
into his pocket, left the shop, and sat down on a doorstep outside to
think.
"And, _mon ami_, what did I do first?"
"Got something to eat?"
"Never. I paid for a bath, had my hair cut and my face shaved, bought a
shirt and collar, and then went back to the restaurant where I had
washed dishes the night before, and the head waiter _served me_. After
that it was easy; the next week it was ten dollars; then in a few years
I had a place of my own; then came madame and Lucette--and here we are."
The twilight had faded into a velvet blue, sprinkled with stars. The
lantern which madame had hung against the arbor shed a yellow light,
throwing into clear relief the sharply cut features of monsieur.
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