Satin recognized her.

"Dear me," she exclaimed, "it's Queen Pomare with her wickerwork shawl!"

And while a gust of wind lashed the fine rain in their faces she told
her beloved the story of Queen Pomare. Oh, she had been a splendid girl
once upon a time: all Paris had talked of her beauty. And such devilish
go and such cheek! Why, she led the men about like dogs, and great
people stood blubbering on her stairs! Now she was in the habit of
getting tipsy, and the women round about would make her drink absinthe
for the sake of a laugh, after which the street boys would throw stones
at her and chase her. In fact, it was a regular smashup; the queen had
tumbled into the mud! Nana listened, feeling cold all over.

"You shall see," added Satin.

She whistled a man's whistle, and the ragpicker, who was then below the
window, lifted her head and showed herself by the yellow flare of her
lantern. Framed among rags, a perfect bundle of them, a face looked out
from under a tattered kerchief--a blue, seamed face with a toothless,
cavernous mouth and fiery bruises where the eyes should be. And Nana,
seeing the frightful old woman, the wanton drowned in drink, had
a sudden fit of recollection and saw far back amid the shadows of
consciousness the vision of Chamont--Irma d'Anglars, the old harlot
crowned with years and honors, ascending the steps in front of her
chateau amid abjectly reverential villagers. Then as Satin whistled
again, making game of the old hag, who could not see her:

"Do leave off; there are the police!" she murmured in changed tones. "In
with us, quick, my pet!"

The measured steps were returning, and they shut the window. Turning
round again, shivering, and with the damp of night on her hair, Nana was
momentarily astounded at sight of her drawing room. It seemed as though
she had forgotten it and were entering an unknown chamber. So warm,
so full of perfume, was the air she encountered that she experienced a
sense of delighted surprise. The heaped-up wealth of the place, the Old
World furniture, the fabrics of silk and gold, the ivory, the bronzes,
were slumbering in the rosy light of the lamps, while from the whole of
the silent house a rich feeling of great luxury ascended, the luxury of
the solemn reception rooms, of the comfortable, ample dining room,
of the vast retired staircase, with their soft carpets and seats. Her
individuality, with its longing for domination and enjoyment and its
desire to pos