“She had taken off her hat.  She was really pretty, and she gazed at me with her clear eyes, gazed so hard and her eyes were so clear that I was terribly tempted.  I caught her in my arms and rained kisses on her eyelids, which she closed suddenly.

“She freed herself and pushed me away, saying: 

“‘Have done, have done.’

“But I next kissed her on the mouth and she did not resist, and as our glances met after thus outraging the memory of the captain killed in Tonquin, I saw that she had a languid, resigned expression that set my mind at rest.

“I became very attentive and, after chatting for some time, I said: 

“‘Where do you dine?’

“’In a little restaurant in the neighborhood: 

“‘All alone?’

“‘Why, yes.’

“‘Will you dine with me?’

“‘Where?’

“‘In a good restaurant on the Boulevard.’

“She demurred a little.  I insisted.  She yielded, saying by way of apology to herself:  ‘I am so lonely—­so lonely.’  Then she added: 

“’I must put on something less sombre, and went into her bedroom.  When she reappeared she was dressed in half-mourning, charming, dainty and slender in a very simple gray dress.  She evidently had a costume for the cemetery and one for the town.

“The dinner was very enjoyable.  She drank some champagne, brightened up, grew lively and I went home with her.

“This friendship, begun amid the tombs, lasted about three weeks.  But one gets tired of everything, especially of women.  I left her under pretext of an imperative journey.  She made me promise that I would come and see her on my return.  She seemed to be really rather attached to me.

“Other things occupied my attention, and it was about a month before I thought much about this little cemetery friend.  However, I did not forget her.  The recollection of her haunted me like a mystery, like a psychological problem, one of those inexplicable questions whose solution baffles us.

“I do not know why, but one day I thought I might possibly meet her in the Montmartre Cemetery, and I went there.

“I walked about a long time without meeting any but the ordinary visitors to this spot, those who have not yet broken off all relations with their dead.  The grave of the captain killed at Tonquin had no mourner on its marble slab, no flowers, no wreath.

“But as I wandered in another direction of this great city of the dead I perceived suddenly, at the end of a narrow avenue of crosses, a couple in deep mourning walking toward me, a man and a woman.  Oh, horrors!  As they approached I recognized her.  It was she!

“She saw me, blushed, and as I brushed past her she gave me a little signal, a tiny little signal with her eye, which meant:  ’Do not recognize me!’ and also seemed to say, ‘Come back to see me again, my dear!’

“The man was a gentleman, distingue, chic, an officer of the Legion of Honor, about fifty years old.  He was supporting her as I had supported her myself when we were leaving the cemetery.