Women were there in great numbers: young
work-girls, all rosy, with white linen, and clean petticoats, who
tripped along briskly from one end of the glazed partition to the other,
opening great attentive eyes, as if they were before the dressed shop
window of a linendraper. There were also women of the lower orders
looking stupefied, and giving themselves lamentable airs; and
well-dressed ladies, carelessly dragging their silk gowns along the
floor.
On a certain occasion Laurent noticed one of the latter standing at a
few paces from the glass, and pressing her cambric handkerchief to her
nostrils. She wore a delicious grey silk skirt with a large black lace
mantle; her face was covered by a veil, and her gloved hands seemed
quite small and delicate. Around her hung a gentle perfume of violet.
She stood scrutinising a corpse. On a slab a few paces away, was
stretched the body of a great, big fellow, a mason who had recently
killed himself on the spot by falling from a scaffolding. He had a broad
chest, large short muscles, and a white, well-nourished body; death had
made a marble statue of him. The lady examined him, turned him round
and weighed him, so to say, with her eyes.
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