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centre of it by the dinner…hour？ Such a man will know how to excuse
this vagabondizing start upon our tale； which； however； we here sum up
in an observation both useful and novel； as far as any observation can
be novel in Paris； where there is nothing new；not even the statue
erected yesterday； on which some young gamin has already scribbled his
name。
Well； then！ there are streets； or ends of streets； there are houses；
unknown for the most part to persons of social distinction； to which a
woman of that class cannot go without causing cruel and very wounding
things to be thought of her。 Whether the woman be rich and has a
carriage； whether she is on foot； or is disguised； if she enters one
of these Parisian defiles at any hour of the day； she compromises her
reputation as a virtuous woman。 If； by chance； she is there at nine in
the evening the conjectures that an observer permits himself to make
upon her may prove fearful in their consequences。 But if the woman is
young and pretty； if she enters a house in one of those streets； if
the house has a long； dark； damp； and evil…smelling passage…way； at
the end of which flickers the pallid gleam of an oil lamp； and if
beneath that gleam appears the horrid face of a withered old woman
with fleshless fingers； ah； then！ and we say it in the interests of
young and pretty women； that woman is lost。 She is at the mercy of the
first man of her acquaintance who sees her in that Parisian slough。
There is more than one street in Paris where such a meeting may lead
to a frightful drama； a bloody drama of death and love； a drama of the
modern school。
Unhappily； this scene； this modern drama itself； will be comprehended
by only a small number of persons； and it is a pity to tell the tale
to a public which cannot enter into its local merit。 But who can
flatter himself that he will ever be understood？ We all die unknown
'tis the saying of women and of authors。
At half…past eight o'clock one evening； in the rue Pagevin； in the
days when that street had no wall which did not echo some infamous
word； and was； in the direction of the rue Soly； the narrowest and
most impassable street in Paris （not excepting the least frequented
corner of the most deserted street）；at the beginning of the month of
February about thirteen years ago； a young man； by one of those
chances which come but once in life； turned the corner of the rue
Pagevin to enter the rue des Vieux…Augustins； close to the rue Soly。
There； this young man； who lived himself in the rue de Bourbon； saw in
a woman near whom he had been unconsciously walking； a vague
resemblance to the prettiest woman in Paris； a chaste and delightful
person； with whom he was secretly and passionately in love；a love
without hope； she was married。 In a moment his heart leaped； an
intolerable heat surged from his centre and flowed through all his
veins； his back turned cold； the skin of his head crept。 He loved； he
was young； he knew Paris； and his knowledge did not permit him to be
ignorant of all there was of possible infamy in an elegant； rich；
young； and beautiful woman walking there； alone； with a furtively
criminal step。 /She/ in that mud！ at that hour！
The love that this young man felt for that woman may seem romantic；
and all the more so because he was an officer in the Royal Guard。 If
he had been in the infantry； the affair might have seemed more likely；
but； as an officer of rank in the cavalry； he belonged to that French
arm which demands rapidity in its conquests and derives as much vanity
from its amorous exploits as from its dashing uniform。 But the passion
of this officer was a true love； and many young hearts will think it
noble。 He loved this woman because she was virtuous； he loved her
virtue； her modest grace； her imposing saintliness； as the dearest
treasures of his hidden passion。 This woman was indeed worthy to
inspire one of those platonic loves which are found； like flowers amid
bloody ruins； in the history of the middle…ages； worthy to be the
hidden principle of all the actions of a young man's life； a love as
high； as pure as the skies when blue； a love without hope and to which
men bind themselves because it can never deceive； a love that is
prodigal of unchecked enjoyment； especially at an age when the heart
is ardent； the imagination keen； and the eyes of a man see very
clearly。
Strange； weird； inconceivable effects may be met with at night in
Paris。 Only those who have amused themselves by watching those effects
have any idea how fantastic a woman may appear there at dusk。 At times
the creature whom you are following； by accident or design； seems to
you light and slender； the stockings； if they are white； make you
fancy that the legs must be slim and elegant； the figure though
wrapped in a shawl； or concealed by a pelisse； defines itself
gracefully and seductively among the shadows； anon； the uncertain
gleam thrown from a shop…window or a street lamp bestows a fleeting
lustre； nearly always deceptive； on the unknown woman； and fires the
imagination； carrying it far beyond the truth。 The senses then bestir
themselves； everything takes color and animation； the woman appears in
an altogether novel aspect； her person becomes beautiful。 Behold！ she
is not a woman； she is a demon； a siren； who is drawing you by
magnetic attraction to some respectable house； where the worthy
/bourgeoise/； frightened by your threatening step and the clack of
your boots； shuts the door in your face without looking at you。
A vacillating gleam； thrown from the shop…window of a shoemaker；
suddenly illuminated from the waist down the figure of the woman who
was before the young man。 Ah！ surely； /she/ alone had that swaying
figure； she alone knew the secret of that chaste gait which innocently
set into relief the many beauties of that attractive form。 Yes； that
was the shawl； and that the velvet bonnet which she wore in the
mornings。 On her gray silk stockings not a spot； on her shoes not a
splash。 The shawl held tightly round the bust disclosed； vaguely； its
charming lines； and the young man； who had often seen those shoulders
at a ball； knew well the treasures that the shawl concealed。 By the
way a Parisian woman wraps a shawl around her； and the way she lifts
her feet in the street； a man of intelligence in such studies can
divine the secret of her mysterious errand。 There is something； I know
not what； of quivering buoyancy in the person； in the gait； the woman
seems to weigh less； she steps； or rather； she glides like a star； and
floats onward led by a thought which exhales from the folds and motion
of her dress。 The young man hastened his step； passed the woman； and
then turned back to look at her。 Pst！ she had disappeared into a
passage…way； the grated door of which and its bell still rattled and
sounded。 The young man walked back to the alley and saw the woman
reach the farther end； where she began to mountnot without receiving
the obsequious bow of an old portressa winding staircase； the lower
steps of which were strongly lighted； she went up buoyantly； eagerly；
as though impatient。
〃Impatient for what？〃 said the young man to himself； drawing back to
lean against a wooden railing on the other side of the street。 He
gazed； unhappy man； at the different storeys of the house； with the
keen attention of a detective searching for a conspirator。
It was one of those houses of which there are thousands in Paris；
ignoble； vulgar； narrow； yellowish in tone； with four storeys and
three windows on each floor。 The outer blinds of the first floor were
closed。 Where was she going？ The young man fancied he heard the tinkle
of a bell on the second floor。 As if in answer to it； a light began to
move in a room with two windows strongly illuminated； which presently
lit up the third window； evidently that of a first room； either the
salon or the dining…room of the apartment。 Instantly the outline of a
woman's bonnet showed vaguely on the window； and a door between the
two rooms must have closed； for the first was dark again； while the
two other windows resumed their ruddy glow。 At this moment a voice
said； 〃Hi； there！〃 and the young man was conscious of a blow on his
shoulder。
〃Why don't you pay attention？〃 said the rough voice of a workman；
carrying a plank on his shoulder。 The man passed on。 He was the voice
of Providence saying to the watcher： 〃What are you meddling with？
Think of your own duty； and leave these Parisians to their own
affairs。〃
The young man crossed his arms； then； as no one beheld him； he
suffered tears of rage to flow down his cheeks unchecked。 At last the
sight of the shadows moving behind the lighted windows gave him such
pain that he looked elsewhere and noticed a hackney…coach； standing
against a wall in the upper part of the rue des Vieux…Augustins； at a
place where there was neither the door of a house； nor the light of a
shop…window。
Was it she？ Was it not she？ Life or death to a lover！ This lover
waited。 He stood there during a century of twenty minutes。 After that
the woman came down； and he then recognized her as the one whom he
secretly loved。 Nevertheless； he wanted still to doubt。 She went to
the hac