It was early in the day, and yet there were already a number of
visitors, both men and women, and the women, though they were dressed
in cashmere and velvet, and had their carriages waiting for them at the
door, gazed with astonishment and admiration at the luxury which they
saw before them.

I was not long in discovering the reason of this astonishment and
admiration, for, having begun to examine things a little carefully, I
discovered without difficulty that I was in the house of a kept woman.
Now, if there is one thing which women in society would like to see (and
there were society women there), it is the home of those women whose
carriages splash their own carriages day by day, who, like them, side by
side with them, have their boxes at the Opera and at the Italiens,
and who parade in Paris the opulent insolence of their beauty, their
diamonds, and their scandal.

This one was dead, so the most virtuous of women could enter even her
bedroom. Death had purified the air of this abode of splendid foulness,
and if more excuse were needed, they had the excuse that they had merely
come to a sale, they knew not whose. They had read the placards, they
wished to see what the placards had announced, and to make their choice
beforehand. What could be more natural? Yet, all the same, in the midst
of all these beautiful things, they could not help looking about for
some traces of this courtesan's life, of which they had heard, no doubt,
strange enough stories.