I am going to recall its origin to you.
"Nine years ago we lived together, and we possessed between us
fourteen dollars a month. Full of confidence in the future, we
rented two rooms in the Rue de Vaugirard for sixty dollars a year.
Youth reckons not. You spoke to the porter's wife of such a
sumptuous set of furniture that she let the rooms to you on your
honest face without asking references. Poor woman, what thrills of
horror ran through her when she saw our furniture set down before
her door! You had six plates, three of which were of porcelain, a
Shakspeare, the works of Victor Hugo, a chest of drawers in its
dotage, and a Phrygian cap. By some extraordinary chance, I had
two mattresses, a hundred and fifty volumes, an arm-chair, two
plain chairs, a table, and a skull. The idea of making a grand
sofa belongs to you, I confess; but it was a deplorable idea. We
sawed off the four feet of a cot-bedstead and made it rest on the
floor; the consequence of which was, that the cot-bedstead proved
to be utterly worthless. The porter's wife took pity upon us, and
lent us a second cot-bedstead, which 'furnished' your chamber,
which was likewise adorned with several dusty souvenirs you hung
on the wall, such as a woman's glove, a velvet mask, and various
other objects which love had hallowed.
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