He used to say to himself:  “Who is she?  Is she young and pretty?  Is she some old woman, who is terribly skillful at her business, but who yet does not venture to show herself any longer?  Or is she some new beginner, who has not yet acquired the boldness of an old hand?  In any case, it is the unknown, perhaps, that is my ideal during the time it takes me to find my way upstairs;” and always as he went up, his heart beat, as it does at a first meeting with a beloved mistress.

But he had never felt such a delicious shiver as he did on the day on which he penetrated into that old house in the blind alley in Menilmontant.  He could not have said why, for he had often gone after so-called love in much stranger places; but now, without any reason, he had a presentiment that he was going to meet with an adventure, and that gave him a delightful sensation.

The woman who had made the sign to him, lived on the third floor, and all the way upstairs his excitement increased, until his heart was beating violently when he reached the landing.  At the same time, he was going up, he smelt a peculiar odor, which grew stronger and stronger, and which he had tried in vain to analyze, though all he could arrive at was, that it smelt like a chemist’s shop.

The door on the right, at the end of the passage, was opened as soon as he put his foot on the landing, and the woman said, in a low voice: 

“Come in, my dear.”

A whiff of a very strong smell met his nostrils through the open door, and suddenly he exclaimed: 

“How stupid I was!  I know what it is now; it is carbolic acid, is it not?”

“Yes,” the woman replied.  “Don’t you like it, dear?  It is very wholesome, you know.”

The woman was not ugly, although not young; she had very good eyes, although they were sad and sunken in her head; evidently she had been crying, very much quite recently, and that imparted a special spice to the vague smile which she put on, so as to appear more amiable.

Seized by his romantic ideas once more, and under the influence of the presentiment which he had had just before, he thought—­and the idea filled him with pleasure: 

“She is some widow, whom poverty has forced to sell herself.”

The room was small, but very clean and tidy, and that confirmed him in his conjecture, as he was curious to verify its truth, he went into the three rooms which opened into one another.  The bedroom, came first; next there came a kind of a drawing-room, and then a dining-room, which evidently served as a kitchen, for a Dutch tiled stove stood in the middle of it, on which a stew was simmering, but the smell of carbolic acid was even stronger in that room.  He remarked on it, and added with a laugh: 

“Do you put it with your soup?”

And as he said this, he laid hold of the handle of the door which led into the next room, for he wanted to see everything, even that nook, which was apparently a store cupboard, but the woman seized him by the arm, and pulled him violently back.