Juliette had chosen a room for me on the second floor of a furnished house in the Faubourg Saint Honoré near the Rue de Balzac. The furniture of the room was rickety, the tapestry worn, the drawers creaked when opened, the pungent odor of decaying wood and accumulated dust filled the window curtains and bedstead hangings; but by placing knick-knacks here and there, she succeeded in imparting an air of intimacy to this banal, cold place, where so many unknown lives had been spent without a trace being left behind. Juliette reserved to herself the task of arranging my things in the hanging-press which she filled with bunches of fragrant flowers. "You see, my dear, here are your socks, and there are your night shirts. I put your neckties in the drawer; your handkerchiefs are there. I hope your little wifie has put everything in order. And every day I'll bring you a sweet-smelling flower. Now don't be sad. Tell yourself that I love you, that I love no one but you, that I shall come often. Oh, I have forgotten a few things! Well, I'll send them to you with Celestine, together with my pictures in the beautiful red plush frames. Don't feel lonesome, my poor, little thing! You know, if I am not here at half-past twelve tonight don't wait for me. Go to bed. Sleep well. Promise me?" And casting a last glance about the room, she left. Indeed, Juliette came every day, while going to the Bois and on her way home before dinner. She never remained more than two minutes at a time. Excited, impelled by a feverish desire to be outside, she would stay long enough to embrace me and to open the drawers to see whether my things were in order. "Well I am going. Don't be sad. I see you have been crying. That is not nice at all! Why cause me aggravation?" "Juliette! Will I see you tonight? Oh! please, tonight!" "Tonight?" She reflected for a minute. "Tonight, yes, my dear! But still do not wait for me too long. Go to bed. Sleep well. Above all, don't cry. You drive me to despair! Really, I don't know what to do with you!" And so I lived here, stretched out on the sofa, never going out, counting the minutes which slowly, slowly, drop by drop, vanished into the eternity of waiting.