Against the walls, boards have been laid on the floor; and heaped on the boards are tapestries, draperies, all kinds of stuffs. Then, tables, wooden trays, and flat, open receptacles of wicker-work. Also pegs, for gowns. Again, battered, lidless boxes of odds and ends. Thus, _embarras de choix_: which of the old things shall I examine first? At last I decide on the tapestries. They are of all shapes and sizes, but most of them have been severed, are but parts—no head to this horse, no top to the lance of this knight, and of that saint only the half. Next, a circular piece of tapestry representing what might be a throne—but faded, faded; and the figure on the throne as shadowy as a phantom. Gobelins? Veuve Mollard no doubt knows: but I prefer to pursue my researches alone, unaided; and then the gaunt widow is darning and darning away at the yellow velvet curtain.... Whose velvet curtain? Where has it hung, what fine window has it screened? Once, evidently, a rich, magnificent yellow; now faded, crumpled, damaged. A curtain from the Faubourg St Germain? from a ruined château? even from the palaces of Versailles or Fontainebleau? Again I glance at Widow Mollard. Old, old. Her fingers tremble, and a long lock of white hair has fallen over one pale, wrinkled cheek. Out of this tray a snuff-box, enamelled, oval-shaped and delicate. A Watteau peasant girl on the lid—but the pretty, pink-cheeked girl, fast fading. Whose snuff-box? Then a shoe buckle. Whose massive, old-fashioned silver buckle? And of whom this miniature: blue eyes, sensitive mouth, delicate eyebrows and powdered hair? Then, a tiny Sèvres tea-cup; a gilt key; a chased silver book-clasp; a string of coral; an ornament of amethysts; bits of embroidery; stray pieces of velvet and silk; lace, satins, furs, and spangled and soft and transparent stuffs. Whose finery? Perhaps a débutante’s, a débutante of years ago—now old, like the things. Graceful, charming débutante of the past! Behold her dressing—or rather being dressed—for her first, her very first ball, amidst what excitement, what confusion! Her mother on her knees, the maids also on their knees, putting the last touches; and the débutante turned round and round, and exhorted to keep still, and told to walk a little, and ordered to return, and commanded to remain “there,” and not to move, not to move! Radiant, irresistible débutante of long ago. At once dignified and shy, now flushed and now pale when in the ballroom she made her first bow to the world, received her first compliments, achieved her first triumphs, and experienced, no doubt, her first emotions, her first illusions, her first doubts. Here in this cellar, in the half-light and the mist from the street, here lies her first ball-dress; and here too, perhaps, are the shoes in which she danced her first official waltz, her first real _cotillon_—a pair of small satin shoes which repose on the top of a heap of other frail shoes.