"This is the dwelling, or rather the kennel, of an exile, but my own room
is cleaner. Let us go there."

As I entered I thought I was in a second-hand store, it was so full of
things of all descriptions, strange things of various kinds that one felt
must be souvenirs. On the walls were two pretty paintings by well-known
artists, draperies, weapons, swords and pistols, and exactly in the
middle, on the principal panel, a square of white satin in a gold frame.

Somewhat surprised, I approached to look at it, and perceived a hairpin
fastened in the centre of the glossy satin. My host placed his hand on my
shoulder.

"That," said he, "is the only thing that I look at here, and the only
thing that I have seen for ten years. M. Prudhomme said: 'This sword is
the most memorable day of my life.' I can say: 'This hairpin is all my
life.'"

I sought for some commonplace remark, and ended by saying:

"You have suffered on account of some woman?"

He replied abruptly:

"Say, rather, that I am suffering like a wretch."

"But come out on my balcony. A name rose to my lips just now which I
dared not utter; for if you had said 'Dead' as you did of Sophie Astier,
I should have fired a bullet into my brain, this very day."