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."




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