mid of crossing the
Seine and impelled her to cling to the bridge railings, it happened
that, on certain evenings, when it rained, these fits of weakness that
she had upon the outer boulevard assumed the terrors of a nightmare.
When the light from the lanterns, trembling in misty vapor, cast its
varying, flickering reflection on the damp ground; when the pavements,
the sidewalks, the earth, seemed to melt away and disappear under the
rain, and there was no appearance of solidity anywhere in the aqueous
darkness, the wretched creature, almost mad with fatigue, would fancy
that she could see a flood rising in the gutter. A mirage of terror
would show her suddenly the water all about her, and creeping constantly
nearer to her. She would close her eyes, not daring to move, fearing to
feel her feet slip from under her; she would begin to weep, and would
weep on until someone passed by and offered to escort her to the _Hotel
of the Little Blue Hand_.

LII

She would then ascend the stairs; that was her last place of refuge. She
would fly from the rain and snow and cold, from fear, despair, and
fatigue. She would go up and sit on the top step against Gautruche's
closed doors; she would draw her shawl and skirts closely about her in
order to leave room for those who went and came up that long steep
ladder, and would draw back as far as possible into the corner in order
that her shame might fill but little space on the narrow landing.

From the open doors the odor of unventilated closets, of families heaped
together in a single room, the exhalations of unhealthy trades, the
dense, greasy fumes of cooking done in chafing-dishes on the floor, the
stench of rags and the faint damp smell of clothes drying in the house,
came forth and filled the hall. The broken-paned window behind Germinie
wafted to her nostrils the fetid stench of a leaden pipe in which the
whole house emptied its refuse and its filth. Her stomach rose in revolt
every moment at a puff of infection; she was obliged to take from her
pocket a phial of melissa water that she always carried, and swallow a
mouthful of it to avoid being ill.

But the staircase had its passers, too: honest workmen's wives went up
with a bushel of charcoal, or a pint of wine for supper. Their feet
would rub against her as they passed, and as they went farther up,
Germinie would feel their scornful glances resting upon her and falling
upon her with more crushing force at every fl