bluish paper, fasces of knitting needles, tapestry patterns, bobbins of
ribbon, along with a heap of soiled and faded articles, which doubtless
had been lying in the same place for five or six years. All the tints
had turned dirty grey in this cupboard, rotting with dust and damp.

In summer, towards noon, when the sun scorched the squares and streets
with its tawny rays, you could distinguish, behind the caps in the other
window, the pale, grave profile of a young woman. This profile issued
vaguely from the darkness reigning in the shop. To a low parched
forehead was attached a long, narrow, pointed nose; the pale pink lips
resembled two thin threads, and the short, nervy chin was attached
to the neck by a line that was supple and fat. The body, lost in the
shadow, could not be seen. The profile alone appeared in its olive
whiteness, perforated by a large, wide-open, black eye, and as though
crushed beneath thick dark hair. This profile remained there for hours,
motionless and peaceful, between a couple of caps for women, whereon the
damp iron rods had imprinted bands of rust.

At night, when the lamp had been lit, you could see inside the shop
which was greater in length than depth. At one end stood a small
counter; at the other, a corkscrew staircase afforded communication
with the rooms on the first floor. Against the walls were show cases,
cupboards, rows of green cardboard boxes. Four chairs and a table
completed the furniture. The shop looked bare and frigid; the goods were
done up in parcels and put away in corners instead of lying hither and
thither in a joyous display of colour.

As a rule two women were seated behind the counter: the young woman with
the grave profile, and an old lady who sat dozing with a smile on her
countenance. The latter was about sixty; and her fat, placid face looked