quiet life, and I remember
every one whom I have met. When I think of such a one, it is not of the
name at first, but of the physiognomy. Each time that I have been to
the Senate or to the Chamber, I did not need to ask the names of
the deputies or senators who spoke; I had seen their portraits and I
recognized them. If I go into these details it is because they are of
great importance, as you will see."

It was not necessary for her to point out their importance; he
understood her only too well.

"In fine, I am thus," she continued. "It is, therefore, not astonishing
that the physiognomy and the attitude of the man who drew the curtains
in Monsieur Caffie's office should not leave my memory. You admit this,
do you not?"

"Since you consult me, I must tell you that the operations of the memory
are not so simple as people imagine. They comprise three things: the
conservation of certain states, their reproduction and localization in
the past, which should be reunited to constitute the perfect memory.
Now this reunion does not always take place, and often the third is
lacking."

"I do not grasp your meaning very well. But what is the third thing?"

"Recognition."

"Well, I can assure you that in this case it is not lacking!"

The action beginning in this way, it was of the utmost importance for
Saniel that he should throw doubts in Madame Dammauville's mind, and
should make her think that this memory of which she felt so sure was
not, perhaps, as strong or as perfect as she imagined.

"It is," he said, "exactly this third thing that is the most delicate,
the most complex of the three, since it supposes, besides the state of
consciousness, some secondary states, variable in number and in degree,
which, grouped around it, determine it."

Madame Dammauville remained silent a moment, and Saniel saw that she
made an effort to explain these obscure words to herself.

"I do not understand," she said at last.

This was exactly what he wished; yet, as it would not be wise to let her
believe that he desired to deceive or confuse her, he thought he might
be a little more precise.

"I wish to ask," he said, "if you are certain that in the mechanism of
the vision and that of the recognition, which is a vision of the past,
there is no confusion?"

She drew a long breath, evidently satisfied to get rid of these
subtleties that troubled her.

"It is exactly because I admit the possibility of this confusion, at
least in