— 18 —
to follow Fanny into the small boudoir and did so. There was a man sitting by the fire with his back turned to me. He had very fair hair, and was thin, but of medium stature.
I went forward a little; he was beating time on his knee with his fingers: his hands were thin, his fingers white and long. I went and sat opposite him: he raised his eyes and looked me in the face. I gazed at this juvenile wreck. One should have called him a ghost rather than a man, for he could hardly have been thirty years of age, in spite of the wrinkles that furrowed his face.
"Where have you come from?" he asked as though waking from a dream. "I don't know you!"
I made no answer, he began to curse.
"Will you answer me, when I do you the honor of addressing you?" I blushed furiously and said:
"Do I ask you who you are or where you come from? Am I obliged to show you all my papers to stand before you? I tell you at once that I haven't got any."
He continued to look at me with a stupified air.
I moved away towards the door.
