And on returning thither that afternoon, he found the same slimy mud around it; its yard littered with the same filth, its dark, damp stairways redolent of the same stench of neglect and poverty, as before.

In winter time, while the fine central districts of Paris are dried and cleansed, the far-away districts of the poor remain gloomy and miry, beneath the everlasting tramp of the wretched ones who dwell in them.
Remembering the staircase which conducted to Salvat's lodging, Pierre began to climb it amidst a loud screaming of little children, who suddenly became quiet, letting the house sink into death-like silence once more.

Then the thought of Laveuve, who had perished up there like a stray dog, came back to Pierre.

And he shuddered when, on the top landing, he knocked at Salvat's door, and profound silence alone answered him.

Not a breath was to be heard.
However, he knocked again, and as nothing stirred he began to think that nobody could be there.