pockets of Paris had given him this name and knew him by no other.
He had a tolerably complete wardrobe.
The rags with which he tricked out people were almost probable.
He had specialties and categories; on each nail of his shop hung a social status, threadbare and worn; here the suit of a magistrate, there the outfit of a Cure, beyond the outfit of a banker, in one corner the costume of a retired military man, elsewhere the habiliments of a man of letters, and further on the dress of a statesman.
This creature was the costumer of the immense drama which knavery plays in Paris.
His lair was the green-room whence theft emerged, and into which roguery retreated.
A tattered knave arrived at this dressing-room, deposited his thirty sous and selected, according to the part which he wished to play, the costume which suited him, and on descending the stairs once more, the knave was a somebody.
On the following day, the clothes were faithfully returned, and the Changer, who trusted the thieves with everything, was never robbed.
There was one inconvenience about these clothes, they "did not fit"; not having been made for those who wore them, they were too tight for one, too loose for another and did not adjust themselves to any one.
Every pickpocket who exceeded or fell short of the human average was ill at his ease in the Changer''s costumes.