at that time,—­learning to paint the much-admired landscapes and figure-pieces which I produce with so much ease now and dispose of with so little,—­and, as a general thing, was busy, (though I had my fits of abstraction, like other men of genius, during which I did nothing but lie on my bed and smoke pipes over French novels, or join parties of pleasure into the country or within the barriers,) through the day, and often till late in the evening, in the atelier of one or another of the most renowned artists of the city.

At the head of the last flight of stairs in this house was a narrow passage-way in which I was always obliged to stop and recover my breath, after finishing the one hundred and thirty-nine steps that led to my paradise, before I could get my key into its lock; and into this passage-way opened two doors, one of which, of course, belonged to my room, and the other to some one’s else.  But who this some one else was I was unable to find out.  Was it—­and how convenient a word is ca in such a case!—­male or female?  I was persuaded it must be a woman, and as a woman I always used to think of her and speak of her, to myself,—­and I thought and spoke of her often enough.  Of course, I could have settled the question at once by knocking at her door and asking for a match, but I scorned resorting to such weak subterfuges.  But how quiet she was!  Occasionally, when, contrary to my usual custom, I took another nap after waking in the morning, instead of going out for exercise and a glimpse of early Paris street-life,—­occasionally I used to hear her moving about on the other side of the thin partition which separated our rooms, as stealthily as though she feared she might disturb me.  She would light her charcoal-stove, and perhaps glide softly by my door and down stairs, to return soon with the paper of coffee, the, bit of bread, and the egg or two which were to serve her for breakfast, and now and then she would sing to herself, but so gently that I never could hear the words of her song, nor scarcely the air.  An evil spirit put gimlets into my head, but I shook them out like so much powder, and resolved to be honorable, if I was an artist.  I found, however, that my curiosity was an abominable nuisance, that my morning walks were almost entirely neglected, and that I could not bear to leave my room until I had heard her go out and lock her door behind her.  Every day, after her departure, I resolved that she should not go out again without being seen by me, and every time I attempted to follow her in such a way as to escape detection I lost sight of her.  I nearly fell into the street as I attempted to reach far enough out of my window to see her as she came out at the street-door.