“I darted toward her, slapped her hands, blew on her eyelids, while I read this simple epitaph:  ’Here lies Louis-Theodore Carrel, Captain of Marine Infantry, killed by the enemy at Tonquin.  Pray for him.’

“He had died some months before.  I was affected to tears and redoubled my attentions.  They were successful.  She regained consciousness.  I appeared very much moved.  I am not bad looking, I am not forty.  I saw by her first glance that she would be polite and grateful.  She was, and amid more tears she told me her history in detached fragments as well as her gasping breath would allow, how the officer was killed at Tonquin when they had been married a year, how she had married him for love, and being an orphan, she had only the usual dowry.

“I consoled her, I comforted her, raised her and lifted her on her feet.  Then I said: 

“‘Do not stay here.  Come.’

“‘I am unable to walk,’ she murmured.

“‘I will support you.’

“‘Thank you, sir; you are good.  Did you also come to mourn for some one?’

“‘Yes, madame.’

“‘A dead friend?’

“‘Yes, madame.’

“‘Your wife?’

“‘A friend.’

“’One may love a friend as much as they love their wife.  Love has no law.’

“‘Yes, madame.’

“And we set off together, she leaning on my arm, while I almost carried her along the paths of the cemetery.  When we got outside she faltered: 

“‘I feel as if I were going to be ill.’

“‘Would you like to go in anywhere, to take something?’

“‘Yes, monsieur.’

“I perceived a restaurant, one of those places where the mourners of the dead go to celebrate the funeral.  We went in.  I made her drink a cup of hot tea, which seemed to revive her.  A faint smile came to her lips.  She began to talk about herself.  It was sad, so sad to be always alone in life, alone in one’s home, night and day, to have no one on whom one can bestow affection, confidence, intimacy.

“That sounded sincere.  It sounded pretty from her mouth.  I was touched.  She was very young, perhaps twenty.  I paid her compliments, which she took in good part.  Then, as time was passing, I suggested taking her home in a carriage.  She accepted, and in the cab we sat so close that our shoulders touched.

“When the cab stopped at her house she murmured:  ’I do not feel equal to going upstairs alone, for I live on the fourth floor.  You have been so good.  Will you let me take your arm as far as my own door?’

“I agreed with eagerness.  She ascended the stairs slowly, breathing hard.  Then, as we stood at her door, she said: 

“‘Come in a few moments so that I may thank you.’

“And, by Jove, I went in.  Everything was modest, even rather poor, but simple and in good taste.

“We sat down side by side on a little sofa and she began to talk again about her loneliness.  She rang for her maid, in order to offer me some wine.  The maid did not come.  I was delighted, thinking that this maid probably came in the morning only, what one calls a charwoman.