She asked to see it. On arriving in the narrow shop, and seeing that he was still eyeing her with an astonished air, she told him of her departure from the shop and of her wish not to trouble her uncle. The old man then went and fetched a key hanging on a board in the back-shop, a small dark room, where he did his cooking and had his bed; beyond that, behind a dirty window, could be seen a back-yard about six feet square. “I'll walk in front to prevent you falling,” said Bourras, entering the damp corridor which ran along the shop. He stumbled against the lower stair, and commenced the ascent, reiterating his warnings to be careful. Look out! the rail was close against the wall, there was a hole at the corner, sometimes the lodgers left their dust-boxes there. Denise, in complete obscurity, could distinguish nothing, only feeling the chilliness of the old damp plaster. On the first floor, however, a small window looking into the yard enabled her to see vaguely, as at the bottom of a piece of sleeping water, the rotten staircase, the walls black with dirt, the cracked and discoloured doors. “If only only these rooms were vacant,” resumed Bourras. “You would be very comfortable there. But they are always occupied by ladies.” On the second floor the light increased, showing up with a raw paleness the distress of the house. A journeyman-baker occupied the first room, and it was the other, the further one, that was vacant. When Bourras had opened the door he was obliged to stay on the landing in order that Denise might enter with ease. The bed placed in the corner nearest the door, left just room enough for one person to pass. At the other end there was a small walnut-wood chest of drawers, a deal table stained black, and two chairs. The lodgers who did any cooking were obliged to kneel before the fire-place, where there was an earthenware stove. “You know,” said the old man, “it is not luxurious, but the view from the window is gay. You can see the people passing in the street.” And, as Denise was looking with surprise at the ceiling just above the bed, where a chance lady-lodger had written her name--Ernestine--by drawing the flame of the candle over it, he added with a good-natured smile; “If I did a lot of repairs, I should never make both ends meet. There you are; it's all I have to offer.” “I shall be very well here,” declared the young girl. She paid a month in advance, asked for the linen--a pair of sheets and two towels, and made her bed without delay, happy, relieved to know where she was going to sleep that night. An hour after she had sent a commissionaire to fetch her box, and was quite at home.