His unsuspected, and hitherto unexpressed, mysticism, which had determined his choice of subject for his last work was now sending him out, in disorder, to seek new pains and pleasures.
As he walked along he recapitulated what he knew of the woman.

She was married, blonde, in easy circumstances because she had her own sleeping quarters and a maid.

She lived in the neighbourhood, because she went to the rue Littre post-office for her mail.

Her name, supposing she had prefixed her own initial to the name of Maubel, was Henriette, Hortense, Honorine, Hubertine, or Helene.

What else?
She must frequent the society of artists, because she had met him, and for years he had not been in a bourgeois drawing-room.