n; this is the part specially reserved for club members, and the
one least used. We have so far had only eleven annihilations here."

"Ah! You call that an... annihilation!"

"Yes, monsieur. Go in."

I hesitated. At length I went in. It was a wide corridor, a sort
of greenhouse in which panes of glass of pale blue, tender pink and
delicate green gave the poetic charm of landscapes to the inclosing
walls. In this pretty salon there were divans, magnificent palms,
flowers, especially roses of balmy fragrance, books on the tables, the
Revue des Deuxmondes, cigars in government boxes, and, what surprised
me, Vichy pastilles in a bonbonniere.

As I expressed my surprise, my guide said:

"Oh, they often come here to chat." He continued: "The public corridors
are similar, but more simply furnished."

In reply to a question of mine, he pointed to a couch covered with
creamy crepe de Chine with white embroidery, beneath a large shrub of
unknown variety at the foot of which was a circular bed of mignonette.

The secretary added in a lower tone:

"We change the flower and the perfume at will, for our gas, which is
quite imperceptible, gives death the fragrance of the suicide's favorite
flower. It is volatilized with essences. Would you like to inhale it for
a second?"

"'No, thank you," I said hastily, "not yet...."

He began to laugh.

"Oh, monsieur, there is no danger. I have tried it myself several
times."

I was afraid he would think me a coward, and I said:

"Well, I'll try it."

"Stretch yourself out on the 'endormeuse."'

A little uneasy I seated myself on the low couch covered with crepe
de Chine and stretched myself full length, and was at once bathed in a
delicious odor of mignonette. I opened my mouth in order to breathe it
in, for my mind had already become stupefied and forgetful of the past
and was a prey, in the first stages of asphyxia, to the enchanting
intoxication of a destroying and magic opium.

Some one shook me by the arm.

"Oh, oh, monsieur," said the secretary, laughing, "it looks to me as if
you were almost caught."

But a voice, a real voice, and no longer a dream voice, greeted me with
the peasant intonation:

"Good morning, m'sieu. How goes it?"

My dream was over. I saw the Seine distinctly in the sunlight, and,
coming along a path, the garde champetre of the district, who with his
right hand touched his kepi braided in silver. I replied:

"Good morning, Marinel. Where are