ould try to keep her out from here, and that there ought to be a piece
of ground somewhere apart for these sort of women, like there is for the
poor. Did you ever hear of such a thing? I gave it to them straight, I
did: well-to-do folk who come to see their dead four times a year, and
bring their flowers themselves, and what flowers! and look twice at the
keep of them they pretend to cry over, and write on their tombstones all
about the tears they haven't shed, and come and make difficulties about
their neighbours. You may believe me or not, sir, I never knew the young
lady; I don't know what she did. Well, I'm quite in love with the poor
thing; I look after her well, and I let her have her camellias at an
honest price. She is the dead body that I like the best. You see, sir,
we are obliged to love the dead, for we are kept so busy, we have hardly
time to love anything else."

I looked at the man, and some of my readers will understand, without my
needing to explain it to them, the emotion which I felt on hearing him.
He observed it, no doubt, for he went on:

"They tell me there were people who ruined themselves over that girl,
and lovers that worshipped her; well, when I think there isn't one of
them that so much as buys her a flower now, that's queer, sir, and
sad. And, after all, she isn't so badly off, for she has her grave to
herself, and if there is only one who remembers her, he makes up for the
others. But we have other poor girls here, just like her and just her
age, and they are just thrown into a pauper's grave, and it breaks my
heart when I hear their poor bodies drop into the earth. And not a soul
thinks about them any more, once they are dead! 'Tisn't a merry trade,
ours, especially when we have a little heart left. What do you expect? I
can't help it. I have a fine, strapping girl myself; she's just twenty,
and when a girl of that age comes here I think of her, and I don't care
if it's a great lady or a vagabond, I can't help feeling it a bit. But
I am taking up your time, sir, with my tales, and it wasn't to hear them
you came here. I was told to show you Mlle. Gautier's grave; here you
have it. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Do you know M. Armand Duval's address?" I asked.

"Yes; he lives at Rue de ----; at least, that's where I always go to get
my money for the flowers you see there."

"Thanks, my good man."

I gave one more look at the grave covered with flowers, half longing to
pe