d to myself that perhaps he had already forgotten the dead woman, and
along with her his promise to come and see me again. This supposition
would have seemed probable enough in most instances, but in Armand's
despair there had been an accent of real sincerity, and, going from one
extreme to another, I imagined that distress had brought on an illness,
and that my not seeing him was explained by the fact that he was ill,
perhaps dead.

I was interested in the young man in spite of myself. Perhaps there was
some selfishness in this interest; perhaps I guessed at some pathetic
love story under all this sorrow; perhaps my desire to know all about it
had much to do with the anxiety which Armand's silence caused me.
Since M. Duval did not return to see me, I decided to go and see him. A
pretext was not difficult to find; unluckily I did not know his address,
and no one among those whom I questioned could give it to me.

I went to the Rue d'Antin; perhaps Marguerite's porter would know where
Armand lived. There was a new porter; he knew as little about it as I.
I then asked in what cemetery Mlle. Gautier had been buried. It was
the Montmartre Cemetery. It was now the month of April; the weather was
fine, the graves were not likely to look as sad and desolate as they do
in winter; in short, it was warm enough for the living to think a little
of the dead, and pay them a visit. I went to the cemetery, saying to
myself: "One glance at Marguerite's grave, and I shall know if Armand's
sorrow still exists, and perhaps I may find out what has become of him."

I entered the keeper's lodge, and asked him if on the 22nd of February
a woman named Marguerite Gautier had not been buried in the Montmartre
Cemetery. He turned over the pages of a big book in which those who
enter this last resting-place are inscribed and numbered, and replied
that on the 22nd of February, at 12 o'clock, a woman of that name had
been buried.

I asked him to show me the grave, for there is no finding one's way
without a guide in this city of the dead, which has its streets like a
city of the living. The keeper called over a gardener, to whom he gave
the necessary instructions; the gardener interrupted him, saying:
"I know, I know.--It is not difficult to find that grave," he added,
turning to me.

"Why?"

"Because it has very different flowers from the others."

"Is it you who look after it?"

"Yes, sir; and I wish all relations took as much trouble abou