So, armed, I issued forth, and drove to the tram, and placed myself on
the top of the tram. And the tram, after much tooting of horns, set
out.
Through kilometre after kilometre of gaslit clattering monotony that
immense and deafening conveyance took me. There were cafés everywhere,
thickly strewn on both sides of the way--at first large and lofty and
richly decorated, with vast glazed façades, and manned by waiters in
black and white, then gradually growing smaller and less busy. The
black and white waiters gave place to men in blouses, and men in
blouses gave place to women and girls--short, fat women and girls who
gossiped among themselves and to customers. Once we passed a café
quite deserted save for the waiter and the waitress, who sat, head on
arms, side by side, over a table asleep.
Then the tram stopped finally, having covered about three miles. There
was no sign of a cab. I proceeded on foot. The shops got smaller and
dingier; they were filled, apparently, by the families of the
proprietors. At length I crossed over a canal--the dreadful quarter of
La Villette--and here the street widened out to an immense width, and
it was silent and forlorn under the gas-lamps. I hurried under railway
bridges, and I saw in the distance great shunting-yards looking grim
in their blue hazes of electric light. Then came the city barrier and
the octroi, and still the street stretched in front of me, darker now,
more mischievous, more obscure. I was in Pantin.
At last I descried the white and blue sign of the Rue Thiers. I stood
alone in the shadow of high, forbidding houses. All seemed strange and
fearsome. Certainly this might still be called Paris, but it was not
the Paris known to Englishmen; it was the Paris of Zola, and Zola in a
Balzacian mood.
I turned into the Rue Thiers, and at once the high, forbidding houses
ceased, and small detached villas--such as are to be found in
thousands round the shabby skirts of Paris--took their place. The
Villa des Hortensias, clearly labelled, was nearly at the far end of
the funereal street. It was rather larger than its fellows, and
comprised three stories, with a small garden in front and a vast
grille with a big bell, such as Parisians love when they have passed
the confines of the city, and have dispensed with the security of a
concierge. The grille was ajar. I entered the garden, having made sure
that the bell would not sound. The façade of the house showed no light
whatever. A double stone stairway of four steps led to the front door.
I went up the steps, and was about to knock, when the idea flashed
across my mind: "Suppose that Deschamps is really dying, how am I to
explain my presence here? I am not the guardian of Rosa, and she may
resent being tracked across Paris by a young man with no claim to
watch her actions."