"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.
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