ned expression that set my
mind at rest.

"I became very attentive and, after chatting for some time, I said:

"'Where do you dine?'

"'In a little restaurant in the neighborhood:

"'All alone?'

"'Why, yes.'

"'Will you dine with me?'

"'Where?'

"'In a good restaurant on the Boulevard.'

"She demurred a little. I insisted. She yielded, saying by way of apology
to herself: 'I am so lonely--so lonely.' Then she added:

"'I must put on something less sombre, and went into her bedroom. When
she reappeared she was dressed in half-mourning, charming, dainty and
slender in a very simple gray dress. She evidently had a costume for the
cemetery and one for the town.

"The dinner was very enjoyable. She drank some champagne, brightened up,
grew lively and I went home with her.

"This friendship, begun amid the tombs, lasted about three weeks. But one
gets tired of everything, especially of women. I left her under pretext
of an imperative journey. She made me promise that I would come and see
her on my return. She seemed to be really rather attached to me.

"Other things occupied my attention, and it was about a month before I
thought much about this little cemetery friend. However, I did not forget
her. The recollection of her haunted me like a mystery, like a
psychological problem, one of those inexplicable questions whose solution
baffles us.

"I do not know why, but one day I thought I might possibly meet her in
the Montmartre Cemetery, and I went there.

"I walked about a long time without meeting any but the ordinary visitors
to this spot, those who have not yet broken off all relations with their
dead. The grave of the captain killed at Tonquin had no mourner on its
marble slab, no flowers, no wreath.

"But as I wandered in another direction of this great city of the dead I
perceived suddenly, at the end of a narrow avenue of crosses, a couple in
deep mourning walking toward me, a man and a woman. Oh, horrors! As they
approached I recognized her. It was she!

"She saw me, blushed, and as I brushed past her she gave me a little
signal, a tiny little signal with her eye, which meant: 'Do not recognize
me!' and also seemed to say, 'Come back to see me again, my dear!'

"The man was a gentleman, distingue, chic, an officer of the Legion of
Honor, about fifty years old. He was supporting her as I had supported
her myself when we were leaving the cemetery.

"I went my way, filled with amazement, asking