Then lo and behold: after dropping by various times to no avail, someone turned up again. I opened the door – I was alone – and found a woman behind it, holding a child by the hand. I first took in the child. He was small, but possessed that adult air that the children of the poor have, also children in certain historic paintings: a tiny humanity, but the eyes, expression and experience of grown-ups, which is the case among animals, and in the truer world of men. The woman took a bold step, furtive and light. She was already in my study. Lowering my eyes, I saw that she wasn’t wearing shoes; her feet were wrapped, instead, in some rags. I took a moment to consider those rags, and her silent step, and her sidelong gait, and only afterwards did I take in her thin, dark, resolute face, straight nose, whittled lips, small head at the top of her tall, straight body. I found myself behind my table; it was as if she’d cornered me against the wall. Her presence cut me off from the rest of the room; with her restless eyes she’d taken in everything around her, on the tables, on the furniture, on the shelves. I had a bad feeling and prepared, instinctively, to defend myself, when my eyes fell to her breasts, discreetly but confidently.

She began speaking with a voice that sought to be reassuring, but betrayed concern: she’d heard of me, and she cited the names of two or three people I knew; she spoke about my life, and here she reminded me of one or two incidents; in short, she wanted me to put in a good word to the director of an institute for the needy, so that he would welcome her among its residents, since she was poor, and willing to adapt to the jobs that impoverished women did to pay for their keep in that charitable institution. I lifted my eyes to look at her, and again I encountered that face, frozen in its secret, rough beauty. I couldn’t help thinking of a man: I was convinced that some fellow had coached her preamble, and the things she’d said about me; the way she’d organized her speech, and that type of flattery, seemed to me of purely masculine inspiration. Moreover, while everything she’d said about my friends was true, she’d been wrong about one thing: I didn’t know the director of the institute she was talking about, not in the least. I’m a man, with a man’s thoughts. In fact, while looking at those strips on her feet, I was actually thinking that I’d never seen a woman so careless about her appearance. In other words, it struck me as a disguise. I must admit she spoke in polished sentences, and didn’t lack a certain refinement. Whoever her Svengali was, he would have gone out of his way to procure a pair of shoes for such a beautiful creature. Beautiful, yes, but also harsh, almost in revolt against her femininity, with those eyes, quick and furtive, that took in, took stock, of everything. Including me.