I was so impressed by this startling information that I ejaculated, "What a philanthropist!" whilst my inner self, who luckily has not the gift of speech, said, "What a fool!" Then I remembered that asking after a washerwoman in Paris without knowing her name was rather quixotic, and I went my way.
During the day I still had the disagreeable sensation of being watched. Men appeared to be noticing me from alleys, street-corners and windows, and once I made a sale to an individual who I was sure observed me more than the lace he was purchasing. When I passed the shop in the evening, Sticks neither looked at me nor returned my salutation, and when I half stopped to examine a new piece of dilapidation on the sidewalk he whispered abruptly, "Move on, I beg of you: your custom is not wanted here."
Was it strange that a series of the wildest conjectures should fill my mind? It was just before the Franco-German war, when the whole of Paris was in a fever of excitement and every event seemed to predict a political crisis. But in what manner could I, a simple lace-selling clerk, be connected with it? This last reflection of course emanated from my plain-talking self, who would rather believe the whole world mad than that anything important should happen to me. I was "not made of the stuff that distinction loves," he said, and begged me not to think that the eyes of the Empire were upon me.
As I entered the house I tried to question my concierge about the pretty girl who had brought home my clothes, but found my efforts useless. The woman said she knew nothing of my washerwoman, not even her name. I tried by describing the girl to get a more definite answer. She intimated that she would have little to do if she looked at every one going up or down the stairs; then burst into tears, and begged me to leave her—that she was dependent on her place for support; that her reputation was all she had; and more to the same effect, which I avoided by making a precipitate retreat.
I rushed to my room and to my glass, eagerly scanning the reflection therein to see if any change in my appearance within the last few days could cause people thus to avoid me, suspect me, and treat me as if contaminated. It was the same insignificant face I had known from childhood, with what my other self called a "stupidly innocent expression." I next thought of examining the portrait, taking it from the wall for this purpose. It was certainly modern: the slightest acquaintance with art settled this beyond doubt. (I must here acknowledge that my second self is rather a cultivated man; his discrimination has often been praised by the members of our firm; and it is owing to his delicate taste that I have been sent several times to Belgium to make large purchases of lace for our house; therefore I could rely on his judgment in this matter.) But might it not conceal another? I held it between me and the light, and could see through it, not only where there were holes, but everywhere between the interstices of the thinly-painted, badly-made canvas. I turned the back: there was nothing but the name of the seller stamped upon it: it was not likely he would remember who had bought this particular article. There was no frame, and I detached the cloth from the stretcher, that nothing might escape me. Not the slightest clew—no bit of paper, message or token. I put back the tacks, and was hanging my unsolved puzzle on the wall when I heard a knock at the door.
This time it was my bonâ-fide washerwoman, who came for the soiled clothes the other in her hasty retreat had forgotten, and as she gathered them together I carelessly asked after the fair unknown.
"She is my niece," was the reply.
"Does she live with you?"
"No: she lives in the country."
"Where?"