The house where Madame Vauquer's boarding house is run is located at the lower end of the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève, at the spot where the ground slopes down toward the Rue de l'Arbalète with a steepness so sudden and rapid that horses rarely go up or down it. This circumstance is favorable to the silence that reigns in these streets hemmed in between the cupolas of the Pitié and the Val-de-Grâce, two monuments that change the atmospheric conditions by spreading yellowish tones there, and by darkening the vistas with the gloomy tone of their domes. The pavement is dry, the gutters have neither mud nor water; the walls are black, the houses are dreary, and the windows are sad. In short, the street is a cul-de-sac, and passersby are rare there; it is cold in summer, hot in winter, and at night, when the moon shines a little, it casts a whitish and sparse glow on the houses, which look like prisons. In this neighborhood, the walls have a mourning color, and the inhabitants are as sad as prisoners. This is poverty without poetry, an economical, concentrated poverty, whose claws are sharp, but which does not sing, does not laugh, does not cry, makes no noise, but which vexes the spleen and undermines the heart. In this street, the shops are almost all wine merchants, grocers, pharmacists, and fruiterers, who sell their goods to poor people. Madame Vauquer's house, a former inn, is the oldest of all these houses, and it has an air of sadness that has nothing in common with the gaiety of the others. It is built of cut stone, but time has blackened the stone, and the windows are barred, and the shutters are always closed. The door is low, and the doorbell is a cracked bell that makes a lugubrious sound. Upon entering, one finds oneself in a large low hall, lit by two barred windows, and whose floor is painted red, but the color is faded by use. This hall is furnished with a walnut table, a walnut wardrobe, a walnut sideboard, and a few straw chairs. The ceiling is low, and the walls are painted green, but the paint is flaking. It is here that Madame Vauquer receives her boarders, and it is here that they eat. The kitchen is next door, and it is small, but it is clean. The first floor is occupied by Madame Vauquer, and the other two floors are divided into rooms for the boarders. The courtyard is small, and it is paved with bricks, and it is filled with chickens and rabbits, and there is a well in the middle. The garden is in the back, and it is planted with a few fruit trees, and there is an arbor. Finally, it is one of those houses where life is monotonous, where the days are alike, where the hours are long, and where the faces are sad. Madame Vauquer's boarding house is one of those institutions that are like a disease of Parisian society, and that are one of the causes of the demoralization of the lower classes. It is there that penniless people live, poor students, elderly people without families, clerks without a future, women without honor, and men without conscience. It is there that vice and misery, virtue and crime, ambition and baseness, elbow one another and mingle, and it is there that one sees the disastrous results of civilization and society. It is there that Father Goriot came to end his days, after having been ruined by his daughters, and it is there that Rastignac began his career, and it is there that Vautrin was arrested. It is a house that has a history, and that is full of memories, and that is like a picture of Parisian life. Finally, it is the Maison Vauquer, a house that is famous in the annals of literature, and that is a monument to human misery and grandeur. It is located at the lower end of the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève, at the spot where the ground slopes down toward the Rue de l'Arbalète, and it is surrounded by larger and richer houses, but it is humbler and more modest, and it is like a stain in the neighborhood. It is a house that has a soul, and that is like a living being, and that has a physiognomy, and that is painted with dark and sad colors. It is the house of sorrow, of resignation, of patience, and of hope. It is the house where one suffers, where one weeps, where one hopes, and where one dies. It is the Maison Vauquer, a house that is the symbol of life, and that is the refuge of the poor, the abandoned, the disinherited, and the despaired. It is the house that Balzac described with so much truth and talent, and that is one of the finest pages of French literature. It is painted with words that are like colors, and it is living and palpable, and it is one of the masterpieces of French prose. It is the Maison Vauquer, a house that is a world, and that is a novel, and that is a poem.