Suddenly, another sound is heard, and these unclean animals fly to hide themselves in their holes.  Some one is trying to force open the door, which communicates between the shop and the passage.  It offers but little resistance, and, in a few seconds, the worn-out lock gives way, and a woman enters.  For a short time she stands motionless in the obscurity of the damp and icy cave.  After a minute’s hesitation, the woman advances and the ray of light illumines the features of the Bacchanal Queen.  Slowly, she approached the funeral couch.  Since the death of Jacques, the alteration in the countenance of Cephyse had gone on increasing.  Fearfully pale, with her fine black hair in disorder, her legs and feet naked, she was barely covered with an old patched petticoat and a very ragged handkerchief.

When she came near the bed, she cast a glance of almost savage assurance at the shroud.  Suddenly she drew back, with a low cry of involuntary terror.  The sheet moved with a rapid undulation, extending from the feet to the head of the corpse.  But soon the sight of a rat, flying along the side of the worm-eaten bedstead, explained the movement of the shroud.  Recovering from her fright, Cephyse began to look for several things, and collected them in haste, as though she dreaded being surprised in the miserable shop.  First, she seized a basket, and filled it with charcoal; then, looking from side to side, she discovered in a corner an earthen pot, which she took with a burst of ominous joy.

“It is not all, it is not all,” said Cephyse, as she continued to search with an unquiet air.

At last she perceived near the stove a little tin box, containing flint, steel and matches.  She placed these articles on the top of the basket, and took it in one hand, and the earthen pot in the other.  As she passed near the corpse of the poor charcoal-dealer, Cephyse said, with a strange smile:  “I rob you, poor Mother Arsene, but my theft will not do me much good.”

Cephyse left the shop, reclosed the door as well as she could, went up the passage, and crossed the little court-yard which separated the front of the building from that part in which Rodin had lodged.  With the exception of the windows of Philemon’s apartment, where Rose-Pompon had so often sat perched like a bird, warbling Beranger, the other windows of the house were open.  There had been deaths on the first and second floors, and, like many others, they were waiting for the cart piled up with coffins.

The Bacchanal Queen gained the stairs, which led to the chambers formerly occupied by Rodin.  Arrived at the landing-place she ascended another ruinous staircase, steep as a ladder, and with nothing but an old rope for a rail.  She at length reached the half-rotten door of a garret, situated in the roof.  The house was in such a state of dilapidation, that, in many places the roof gave admission to the rain, and allowed it to penetrate into this cell,