his habit to kill women, you know. I am obliged to be constantly on my
guard, but I do not grow sad on that account; I continue to laugh--at
least, sometimes. Tell me, Henri, is your lady beautiful?"

"Alas! she is not mine."

"Is she beautiful? Her name?"

"I do not know it."

"Come, now."

"On my honor."

"My friend, I begin to think it is more dangerous than I thought; it is
not sadness, but madness."

"She never spoke but once before me, and since then I have not heard the
sound of her voice."

"And you have not inquired about her?"

"Of whom?"

"Why, of the neighbors."

"She lives in her own house, and no one knows her."

"Ah! _ça!_ then she is a ghost!"