to be coaxed.

As he sat smoking, his elbows on the table, a petit verre half full
beside his plate, half torpid in an atmosphere of tobacco blended with
steaming coffee, he seemed to be perfectly at home. He said between two
whiffs:

"A curious thing happened to me some time ago."

"Tell it to us," they all exclaimed at once.

"With pleasure. You know that I wander about Paris a great deal, like
book collectors who ransack book stalls. I just look at the sights, at
the people, at all that is passing by and all that is going on.

"Toward the middle of September--it was beautiful weather--I went out
one afternoon, not knowing where I was going. One always has a vague
wish to call on some pretty woman or other. One chooses among them in
one's mental picture gallery, compares them in one's mind, weighs the
interest with which they inspire you, their comparative charms and
finally decides according to the influence of the day. But when the sun
is very bright and the air warm, it takes away from you all desire to
make calls.

"The sun was bright, the air warm. I lighted a cigar and sauntered
aimlessly along the outer boulevard. Then, as I strolled on, it occurred
to me to walk as far as Montmartre and go into the cemetery.

"I am very fond of cemeteries. They rest me and give me a feeling of
sadness; I need it. And, besides, I have good friends in there, those
that one no longer goes to call on, and I go there from time to time.

"It is in this cemetery of Montmartre that is buried a romance of my
life, a sweetheart who made a great impression on me, a very emotional,
charming little woman whose memory, although it causes me great sorrow,
also fills me with regrets--regrets of all kinds. And I go to dream
beside her grave. She has finished with life.

"And then I like cemeteries because they are immense cities filled to
overflowing with inhabitants. Think how many dead people there are in
this small space, think of all the generations of Parisians who are
housed there forever, veritable troglodytes enclosed in their little
vaults, in their little graves covered with a stone or marked by a
cross, while living beings take up so much room and make so much noise
--imbeciles that they are!

"Then, again, in cemeteries there are monuments almost as interesting
as in museums. The tomb of Cavaignac reminded me, I must confess
without making any comparison, of the chef d'oeuvre of Jean Goujon: the
recumbent statue of Loui