“Dear me,” she exclaimed, “it’s Queen Pomare with her wickerwork shawl!”

And while a gust of wind lashed the fine rain in their faces she told her beloved the story of Queen Pomare.  Oh, she had been a splendid girl once upon a time:  all Paris had talked of her beauty.  And such devilish go and such cheek!  Why, she led the men about like dogs, and great people stood blubbering on her stairs!  Now she was in the habit of getting tipsy, and the women round about would make her drink absinthe for the sake of a laugh, after which the street boys would throw stones at her and chase her.  In fact, it was a regular smashup; the queen had tumbled into the mud!  Nana listened, feeling cold all over.

“You shall see,” added Satin.

She whistled a man’s whistle, and the ragpicker, who was then below the window, lifted her head and showed herself by the yellow flare of her lantern.  Framed among rags, a perfect bundle of them, a face looked out from under a tattered kerchief—­a blue, seamed face with a toothless, cavernous mouth and fiery bruises where the eyes should be.  And Nana, seeing the frightful old woman, the wanton drowned in drink, had a sudden fit of recollection and saw far back amid the shadows of consciousness the vision of Chamont—­Irma d’Anglars, the old harlot crowned with years and honors, ascending the steps in front of her chateau amid abjectly reverential villagers.  Then as Satin whistled again, making game of the old hag, who could not see her: 

“Do leave off; there are the police!” she murmured in changed tones.  “In with us, quick, my pet!”

The measured steps were returning, and they shut the window.  Turning round again, shivering, and with the damp of night on her hair, Nana was momentarily astounded at sight of her drawing room.  It seemed as though she had forgotten it and were entering an unknown chamber.  So warm, so full of perfume, was the air she encountered that she experienced a sense of delighted surprise.  The heaped-up wealth of the place, the Old World furniture, the fabrics of silk and gold, the ivory, the bronzes, were slumbering in the rosy light of the lamps, while from the whole of the silent house a rich feeling of great luxury ascended, the luxury of the solemn reception rooms, of the comfortable, ample dining room, of the vast retired staircase, with their soft carpets and seats.  Her individuality, with its longing for domination and enjoyment and its desire to possess everything that she might destroy everything, was suddenly increased.  Never before had she felt so profoundly the puissance of her sex.  She gazed slowly round and remarked with an expression of grave philosophy: 

“Ah well, all the same, one’s jolly well right to profit by things when one’s young!”

But now Satin was rolling on the bearskins in the bedroom and calling her.

“Oh, do come!  Do come!”

Nana undressed in the dressing room, and in order to be quicker about it she took her thick fell of blonde hair in both hands and began shaking it above the silver wash hand basin, while a downward hail of long hairpins rang a little chime on the shining metal.