I went up to the man, to whom I was causing so much anxiety. "Sir," I
said, "can you tell me the name of the person who formerly lived here?"
"Mademoiselle Marguerite Gautier."
I knew her by name and by sight.
"What!" I said to the attendant; "Marguerite Gautier is dead?"
"Yes, sir."
"When did she die?"
"Three weeks ago, I believe."
"And why are the rooms on view?"
"The creditors believe that it will send up the prices. People can see
beforehand the effect of the things; you see that induces them to buy."
"She was in debt, then?"
"To any extent, sir."
"But the sale will cover it?"
"And more too."
"Who will get what remains over?"
"Her family."
"She had a family?"
"It seems so."
"Thanks."
The attendant, reassured as to my intentions, touched his hat, and I
went out.
"Poor girl!" I said to myself as I returned home; "she must have had a
sad death, for, in her world, one has friends only when one is perfectly
well." And in spite of myself I began to feel melancholy over the fate
of Marguerite Gautier.
It will seem absurd to many people, but I have an unbounded sympathy
for women of this kind, and I do not think it necessary to apologize for
such sympathy.
One day, as I was going to the Prefecture for a passport, I saw in one
of the neighbouring streets a poor girl who was being marched along by
two policemen. I do not know what was the matter. All I know is that she
was weeping bitterly as she kissed an infant only a few months old, from
whom her arrest was to separate her. Since that day I have never dared
to despise a woman at first sight.