I have always been very fond of curiosities, and I made up my
mind not to miss the occasion, if not of buying some, at all
events of seeing them. Next day I called at 9, Rue d'Antin.

It was early in the day, and yet there were already a number of
visitors, both men and women, and the women, though they were
dressed in cashmere and velvet, and had their carriages waiting
for them at the door, gazed with astonishment and admiration at
the luxury which they saw before them.

I was not long in discovering the reason of this astonishment and
admiration, for, having begun to examine things a little
carefully, I discovered without difficulty that I was in the
house of a kept woman. Now, if there is one thing which women in
society would like to see (and there were society women there),
it is the home of those women whose carriages splash their own
carriages day by day, who, like them, side by side with them,
have their boxes at the Opera and at the Italiens, and who parade
in Paris the opulent insolence of their beauty, their diamonds,
and their scandal.

This one was dead, so the most virtuous of women could enter even
her bedroom. Death had purified the air of this abode of splendid
foulness, and if more excuse were needed, they had the excuse
that they had merely come to a sale, they knew not whose. They
had read the placards, they wished to see what the placards had
announced, and to make their choice beforehand. What could be
more natural? Yet, all the same, in the midst of all these
beautiful things, they could not help looking about for some