“I saw a vast chamber furnished quite elegantly, though it was obviously out of repair, and lighted by a lamp suspended from the ceiling.  At the end of the room was a low sofa upon which was reclining a woman who seemed to me to be both young and pretty.  Her loosened hair fell over her shoulders in a rain of gold.  She was looking at herself in a hand mirror, patting herself, passing her arms over her lips, and twisting about her supple body with a curiously feline grace.  Every movement that she made caused her long hair to ripple in glistening undulations.

“As I gazed upon her I confess that I felt a little troubled, especially when all of a sudden the young girl’s eyes were fixed upon me—­strange eyes, eyes of a phosphorescent green that gleamed like the flame of a lamp.  I was sure that I was invisible, being on the dark side of a curtained window.  That was simple enough, yet nevertheless I felt that I was seen.  The girl, in fact, uttered a cry, and then turned and buried her face in the sofa-pillows.

“I raised the window, rushed into the room toward the sofa, and leaned over the face that she was hiding.  As I did so, being really very remorseful, I began to excuse and to accuse myself, calling myself all sorts of names, and begging pardon for my indiscretion.  I said that I deserved to be driven from her presence, but begged not to be sent away without at least a word of pardon.  For a long time I pleaded thus without success, but at last she slowly turned, and I saw that her fair young face was stirred with just the faintest suggestion of a smile.  When she caught a glimpse of me she murmured something of which I did not then quite get the meaning.

“‘It is you,’ she cried out; ‘it is you!’

“As she said this, and as I looked at her, not knowing yet exactly what to answer, I was harassed by the thought:  Where on earth have I already seen this face, this look, this very gesture?  Little by little, however, I found my tongue, and after saying a few more words in apology for my unpardonable curiosity, and getting brief but not offended answers, I took leave of her, and, retiring through the window by which I had come, went back to my own room.  Arriving there, I sat a long time by the window in the darkness, charmed by the face that I had seen, and yet singularly disquieted.  This woman so beautiful, so amiable, living so near to me, who said to me, ‘It is you,’ exactly as though she had already known me, who spoke so little, who answered all my questions with evasion, excited in me a feeling of fear.  She had, indeed, told me her name—­Linda—­and that was all.  I tried in vain to drive away the remembrance of her greenish eyes, which in the darkness seemed still to gleam upon me, and of those glints which, like electric sparks, shone in her long hair whenever she stroked it with her hand.  Finally, however, I retired for the night; but scarcely was my head upon the pillow when I felt some moving body descend upon my feet.  The cat had appeared again.  I tried to chase her away, but she kept returning again and again, until I ended by resigning myself to her presence; and, just as before, I went to sleep with this strange companion near me.  Yet my rest was this time a troubled one, and broken by strange and fitful dreams.