The fact is that I have just finished reading your last book," "She has taken her time," murmured Durtal, "it appeared a year ago." "melancholy as an imprisoned soul vainly beating its wings against the bars of its cage." "Oh, hell! What a compliment.

Anyway, it rings false, like all of them." "And now, Monsieur, though I am convinced that it is always folly and madness to try to realize a desire, will you permit that a sister in lassitude meet you some evening in a place which you shall designate, after which we shall return, each of us, into our own interior, the interior of persons destined to fall because they are out of line with their 'fellows'?
Adieu, Monsieur, be assured that I consider you a somebody in a century of nobodies.
"Not knowing whether this note will elicit a reply, I abstain from making myself known.

This evening a maid will call upon your concierge and ask him if there is a letter for Mme.
Maubel." "Hmm!" said Durtal, folding up the letter.

"I know her.

She must be one of these withered dames who are always trying to cash outlawed kiss-tickets and soul-warrants in the lottery of love.