“Oh, oh, monsieur, we can guess! And, besides, they must bring a certificate of indigency from the commissary of police of their district. If you knew how distressing it is to see them come in! I visited their part of our building once only, and I will never go again. The place itself is almost as good as this part, almost as luxurious and comfortable; but they themselves... they themselves!!! If you could see them arriving, the old men in rags coming to die; persons who have been dying of misery for months, picking up their food at the edges of the curbstone like dogs in the street; women in rags, emaciated, sick, paralyzed, incapable of making a living, who say to us after they have told us their story: 'You see that things cannot go on like that, as I cannot work any longer or earn anything.' I saw one woman of eighty-seven who had lost all her children and grandchildren, and who for the last six weeks had been sleeping out of doors. It made me ill to hear of it. Then we have so many different cases, without counting those who say nothing, but simply ask: 'Where is it?' These are admitted at once and it is all over in a minute.” With a pang at my heart I repeated: “And... where is it?” “Here,” and he opened a door, adding: “Go in; this is the part specially reserved for club members, and the one least used. We have so far had only eleven annihilations here.” “Ah! You call that an... annihilation!” “Yes, monsieur. Go in.” I hesitated. At length I went in. It was a wide corridor, a sort of greenhouse in which panes of glass of pale blue, tender pink and delicate green gave the poetic charm of landscapes to the inclosing walls. In this pretty salon there were divans, magnificent palms, flowers, especially roses of balmy fragrance, books on the tables, the Revue des Deuxmondes, cigars in government boxes, and, what surprised me, Vichy pastilles in a bonbonniere. As I expressed my surprise, my guide said: “Oh, they often come here to chat.” He continued: “The public corridors are similar, but more simply furnished.” In reply to a question of mine, he pointed to a couch covered with creamy crepe de Chine with white embroidery, beneath a large shrub of unknown variety at the foot of which was a circular bed of mignonette. The secretary added in a lower tone: “We change the flower and the perfume at will, for our gas, which is quite imperceptible, gives death the fragrance of the suicide's favorite flower. It is volatilized with essences. Would you like to inhale it for a second?” “'No, thank you,” I said hastily, “not yet....” He began to laugh. “Oh, monsieur, there is no danger. I have tried it myself several times.” I was afraid he would think me a coward, and I said: “Well, I'll try it.” “Stretch yourself out on the 'endormeuse.”'