house veiled by flowers.

I did not hesitate, but rang the bell.

A small servant answered, a boy of eighteen with awkward mien and clumsy
hands. I wrote in pencil on my card a gallant compliment to the actress,
begging her to receive me. Perhaps, if she knew my name, she would open
her door to me.

The little valet took it in, and then came back, asking me to
follow him. He led me to a neat and decorous salon, furnished in the
Louis-Philippe style, with stiff and heavy furniture, from which a
little maid of sixteen, slender but not pretty, took off the covers in
my honor.

Then I was left alone.

On the walls hung three portraits, that of the actress in one of her
roles, that of the poet in his close-fitting greatcoat and the ruffled
shirt then in style, and that of the musician seated at a piano.

She, blond, charming, but affected, according to the fashion of her
day, was smiling, with her pretty mouth and blue eyes; the painting was
careful, fine, elegant, but lifeless.

Those faces seemed to be already looking upon posterity.

The whole place had the air of a bygone time, of days that were done and
men who had vanished.

A door opened and a little woman entered, old, very old, very small,
with white hair and white eyebrows, a veritable white mouse, and as
quick and furtive of movement.

She held out her hand to me, saying in a voice still fresh, sonorous and
vibrant:

"Thank you, monsieur. How kind it is of the men of to-day to remember
the women of yesterday! Sit down."

I told her that her house had attracted me, that I had inquired for
the proprietor's name, and that, on learning it, I could not resist the
desire to ring her bell.

"This gives me all the more pleasure, monsieur," she replied, "as it
is the first time that such a thing has happened. When I received your
card, with the gracious note, I trembled as if an old friend who had
disappeared for twenty years had been announced to me. I am like a dead
body, whom no one remembers, of whom no one will think until the day
when I shall actually die; then the newspapers will mention Julie Romain
for three days, relating anecdotes and details of my life, reviving
memories, and praising me greatly. Then all will be over with me."

After a few moments of silence, she continued:

"And this will not be so very long now. In a few months, in a few days,
nothing will remain but a little skeleton of this little woman who is
now alive."

She raised