It
was bare and dilapidated: there was a wash of yellow paint on its walls;
its steps had been worn by the incessant passage of feet, and its iron
balustrade had grown smooth under the friction of many hands. On a level
with the floor on every stairhead there was a low window which resembled
a deep, square venthole, while in lanterns fastened to the walls flaring
gas jets crudely illuminated the surrounding squalor and gave out a
glowing heat which, as it mounted up the narrow stairwell, grew ever
more intense.
When he reached the foot of the stairs the count once more felt the hot
breath upon his neck and shoulders. As of old it was laden with the odor
of women, wafted amid floods of light and sound from the dressing rooms
above, and now with every upward step he took the musky scent of powders
and the tart perfume of toilet vinegars heated and bewildered him more
and more. On the first floor two corridors ran backward, branching
sharply off and presenting a set of doors to view which were painted
yellow and numbered with great white numerals in such a way as to
suggest a hotel with a bad reputation. The tiles on the floor had been
many of them unbedded, and the old house being in a state of subsidence,
they stuck up like hummocks.
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