Everything furnishes a hint, and becomes matter for divination.  At the fourth story, a grisette, taken by surprise, finds herself—­too late, like the chaste Susanne,—­the prey of the delighted lorgnette of an aged clerk, who earns eighteen hundred francs a year, and who becomes criminal gratis.  On the other hand, a handsome young gentleman, who, for the present, works without wages, and is only nineteen years old, appears before the sight of a pious old lady, in the simple apparel of a man engaged in shaving.  The watch thus kept up is never relaxed, while prudence, on the contrary, has its moments of forgetfulness.  Curtains are not always let down in time.  A woman, just before dark, approaches the window to thread her needle, and the married man opposite may then admire a head that Raphael might have painted, and one that he considers worthy of himself—­a National Guard truly imposing when under arms.  Oh, sacred private life, where art thou!  Paris is a city ever ready to exhibit itself half naked, a city essentially libertine and devoid of modesty.  For a person’s life to be decorous in it, the said person should have a hundred thousand a year.  Virtues are dearer than vices in Paris.

Caroline, whose gaze sometimes steals between the protecting muslins which hide her domestic life from the five stories opposite, at last discovers a young couple plunged in the delights of the honey-moon, and newly established in the first story directly in view of her window.  She spends her time in the most exciting observations.  The blinds are closed early, and opened late.  One day, Caroline, who has arisen at eight o’clock notices, by accident, of course, the maid preparing a bath or a morning dress, a delicious deshabille.  Caroline sighs.  She lies in ambush like a hunter at the cover; she surprises the young woman, her face actually illuminated with happiness.  Finally, by dint of watching the charming couple, she sees the gentleman and lady open the window, and lean gently one against the other, as, supported by the railing, they breathe the evening air.  Caroline gives herself a nervous headache, by endeavoring to interpret the phantasmagorias, some of them having an explanation and others not, made by the shadows of these two young people on the curtains, one night when they have forgotten to close the shutters.  The young woman is often seated, melancholy and pensive, waiting for her absent husband; she hears the tread of a horse, or the rumble of a cab at the street corner; she starts from the sofa, and from her movements, it is easy for Caroline to see that she exclaims:  “’Tis he!”

“How they love each other!” says Caroline to herself.

By dint of nervous headache, Caroline conceives an exceedingly ingenious plan:  this plan consists in using the conjugal bliss of the opposite neighbors as a tonic to stimulate Adolphe.  The idea is not without depravity, but then Caroline’s intention sanctifies the means!