e table, bring on the soup and sit down
opposite him.

"At those times, monsieur, it was as if my friendship for him had been
crushed in my body as with a stone. It hurt. But he did not understand;
he did not know; he felt a need to tell all those things to some one, to
boast, to show how much he was loved, and I was the only one he had to
whom he could talk-the only one. And I would have to listen and drink it
in, like poison.

"He would begin to take his soup and then he would say: 'One more,
Madeleine.'

"And I would think: 'Here it comes! Goodness! what a man! Why did I ever
meet him?'

"Then he would begin: 'One more! And a beauty, too.' And it would be
some little one from the Vaudeville or else from the Varietes, and some
of the big ones, too, some of the most famous. He would tell me their
names, how their apartments were furnished, everything, everything,
monsieur. Heartbreaking details. And he would go over them and tell his
story over again from beginning to end, so pleased with himself that I
would pretend to laugh so that he would not get angry with me.

"Everything may not have been true! He liked to glorify himself and was
quite capable of inventing such things! They may perhaps also have been
true! On those evenings he would pretend to be tired and wish to go to
bed after supper. We would take supper at eleven, monsieur, for he could
never get back from work earlier.

"When he had finished telling about his adventure he would walk round
the room and smoke cigarettes, and he was so handsome, with his mustache
and curly hair, that I would think: 'It's true, just the same, what
he is telling. Since I myself am crazy about that man, why should not
others be the same?' Then I would feel like crying, shrieking, running
away and jumping out of the window while I was clearing the table and
he was smoking. He would yawn in order to show how tired he was, and he
would say two or three times before going to bed: 'Ah! how well I shall
sleep this evening!'

"I bear him no ill will, because he did not know how he was hurting
me. No, he could not know! He loved to boast about the women just as a
peacock loves to show his feathers. He got to the point where he thought
that all of them looked at him and desired him.

"It was hard when he grew old. Oh, monsieur, when I saw his first white
hair I felt a terrible shock and then a great joy--a wicked joy--but
so great, so great! I said to myself: 'It's the end-it's