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Long, narrow shoes, tiny ridiculous shoes—some of them with loose, dangling rosettes, others showing a bare place where the rosette or a jewel had once been fastened. High heels, and the soles scarcely thicker than a sheet of paper. Sometimes a rent in the satin, and the maker’s name stamped in dim gilt letters. Shoes, no doubt, that long ago stepped daring quadrilles at the bal masqué of the Opera; the shoes of Mademoiselle Liane de Luneville, a former blonde and brilliant courtesan; and next to them remnants from Mademoiselle de Luneville’s wardrobe. A white satin dress, sewn with artificial pearls, dismembered silken sleeves, spangled stuffs, daring gauzes, and other extravagances and audacities. Courtesan finery. Sold, no doubt, in the twilight of the demi-mondaine’s career; or seized roughly by the bailiffs when not a shadow of the beauty or glory of Mademoiselle de Luneville remained.

Now does a moth fly out of a piece of tapestry I have shaken. Now do I behold a black cat, with lurid yellow eyes, perched motionless upon a pile of draperies in a corner. Now do I perceive gigantic cobwebs overhead. Thus, some life—but life of an eerie nature—in the cellar.