energy, he rings again impatient that the footman has not heard him.

Perhaps he exhales a delicate scent, as he chews a pastille.

Perhaps with a solemn air he takes a pinch of snuff, brushing off with
care the grains that might mar the whiteness of his linen.

Perhaps he looks around like a man estimating the value of the
staircase lamp, the balustrade, the carpet, as if he were a furniture
dealer or a contractor.

Perhaps this celibate seems a young or an old man, is cold or hot,
arrives slowly, with an expression of sadness or merriment, etc.

You see that here, at the very foot of your staircase, you are met by
an astonishing mass of things to observe.

The light pencil-strokes, with which we have tried to outline this
figure, will suggest to you what is in reality a moral kaleidoscope
with millions of variations. And yet we have not even attempted to
bring any woman on to the threshold which reveals so much; for in that
case our remarks, already considerable in number, would have been
countless and light as the grains of sand on the seashore.

For as a matter of fact, when he stands before the shut door, a man
believes that he is quite alone; and he would have no hesitation in
beginning a silent monologue, a dreamy soliloquy, in which he revealed
his desires, his intentions, his personal qualities, his faults, his
virtues, etc.; for undoubtedly a man on a stoop is exactly like a
young girl of fifteen at confession, the evening before her first