At last a litter, and upon this litter a body, covered with a linen cloth, issued from the inn, carried by two men.  They descended to the street, and the children, on their way to school, ran behind them.

All the people drew back as they advanced.

The window opposite was still open; the end of a rope floated from the crossbeam.

I had not dreamed.  I had, indeed, seen the butterfly of the night; I had seen the man hanging, and I had seen Fledermausse.

That day Toubac made me a visit, and, as his great nose appeared on a level with the floor, he exclaimed: 

“Master Christian, have you nothing to sell?”

I did not hear him.  I was seated upon my one chair, my hands clasped upon my knees, and my eyes fixed before me.

Toubac, surprised at my inattention, repeated in a louder voice: 

“Master Christian, Master Christian!” Then, striding over the sill, he advanced and struck me on the shoulder.

“Well, well, what is the matter now?”

“Ah, is that you, Toubac?”

“Eh, parbleu!  I rather think so; are you ill?”

“No, I am only thinking.”

“What in the devil are you thinking about?”

“Of the man who was hanged.”

“Oh, oh!” cried the curiosity vender.  “You have seen him, then?  The poor boy!  What a singular history!  The third in the same place.”

“How—­the third?”

“Ah, yes!  I ought to have warned you; but it is not too late.  There will certainly be a fourth, who will follow the example of the others. Il n’y a que le premier pas qui coute.”

Saying this, Toubac took a seat on the corner of my trunk, struck his match-box, lighted his pipe, and blew three or four powerful whiffs of smoke with a meditative air.

“My faith,” said he, “I am not fearful; but, if I had full permission to pass the night in that chamber, I should much prefer to sleep elsewhere.

“Listen, Master Christian.  Nine or ten months ago a good man of Tuebingen, wholesale dealer in furs, dismounted at the Inn Boeuf-Gras.  He called for supper; he ate well; he drank well; and was finally conducted to that room in the third story—­it is called the Green Room.  Well, the next morning he was found hanging to the crossbeam of the signboard.

“Well, that might do for once; nothing could be said.

“Every proper investigation was made, and the stranger was buried at the bottom of the garden.  But, look you, about six months afterwards a brave soldier from Neustadt arrived; he had received his final discharge, and was rejoicing in the thought of returning to his native village.  During the whole evening, while emptying his wine cups, he spoke fondly of his little cousin who was waiting to marry him.  At last this big monsieur was conducted to his room—­the Green Room—­and, the same night, the watchman, passing down the street Minnesaenger, perceived something hanging to the crossbeam; he raised his lantern, and lo! it was the soldier, with his final discharge in a bow on his left hip, and his hands gathered up to the seam of his pantaloons, as if on parade.