“Are you quite well, madame?”
“Yes, sir, thank you.”
She was out of breath; and as she went upstairs he looked at her muddy boots, thinking of that lunch, with her head down and her feet in the air, which the servants had spoken of. She had no doubt walked home, not having been able to find a cab. A hot unsavoury odour came from her damp skirts. Fatigue, a placid weariness of all her flesh, made her at times, in spite of herself, place her hand on the balustrade.
“What a disagreeable day, is it not, madame?”
“Frightful, sir. And, with that, the atmosphere is very close.”
She had reached the first-floor landing, and they bowed to each other. But, with a glance, he had seen her haggard face, her eyelids heavy with sleep, her unkempt hair beneath the bonnet tied on in haste; and as he continued on his way upstairs, he reflected, annoyed and angry. Then, why not with him? He was neither more stupid nor uglier than the others.
When before Madame Juzeur’s door, on the third floor, his promise of the evening before recurred to him. He felt curious about that little woman, so discreet and with eyes like periwinkles. He rang. It was Madame Juzeur herself who answered the door.
“Ah! dear sir, how kind of you! Pray walk in.”
There was a softness about the lodging which smelt a bit stuffy: carpets and hangings everywhere, seats as yielding as down, with the warm unruffled atmosphere of a chest padded with old rainbow coloured satin. In the drawing-room, to which the double curtains imparted the peacefulness of a church, Octave was invited to seat himself on a broad and very low sofa.
“Here is the lace,” resumed Madame Juzeur, reappearing with a sandal-wood box full of finery. “I am going to make a present of it to some one, and I am curious to know its value.”