Rue du Colisée, at the back of a court-yard, on the
third floor of a dark and very old house,—almost a
house for working-people. At the very entrance
the narrow and steep staircase, with its filthy steps
that stick to your shoes and its damp banister that
sticks to your hands, blows into your face an infected air, an odor of sinks and closets, and fills
your heart with discouragement. I do not pretend
to be fastidious, but the very sight of this staircase
turns my stomach and cuts off my legs, and I am
seized with a mad desire to run away. The hope
which, on the way, has been singing in your head
is at once silenced, stifled by this thick and sticky
atmosphere, by these vile steps, and these sweating
walls that seem to be frequented by glutinous
larve and cold toads. Really, I do not understand
how fine ladies dare to venture into this unhealthy
hovel. Frankly, they are not disgusted. But
what is there to-day that disgusts fine ladies?
They would not go into such a house to help a poor
person, but to worry a domestic they would go the
devil knows where!
This bureau was run by Mme. Paulhat-Durand, a tall woman of almost forty-five years, who, underneath her very black and slightly wavy hair, and in spite of soft flesh crammed into a terrible corset, still preserved remnants of beauty, a majestic deportment, . . . and such aneye! My! but she must have had fun in her day! ‘With her austere
