We reach my home; Marie offers me her hand, and we hesitate. "Come
in."

She enters. We look at the dead room; the floor is wet, and the wind
blows through as if we were out of doors. Both of us are crying, and
she says, "I will come to-morrow and tidy up. Till then----"

We take each other's hand in confused hesitation.

* * * * * *

A little later there is a scraping at the door, then a timid knock, and
a long figure appears.

It is Véron who presents himself with an awkward air. His tall and
badly jointed body swings like a hanging signboard. He is an original
and sentimental soul, but no one has ever troubled to find out what he
is. He begins, "My young friend--hum, hum--" (he repeats this formless
sound every two or three words, like a sort of clock with a sonorous
tick)--"One may be wanting money, you know, for something--hum, hum;
you need money, perhaps--hum, hum; all this expense--and I'd said to
myself 'I'll take him some----'"

He scrutinizes me as he repeats, "Hum, hum." I shake his hand with
tears in my eyes. I do not need money, but I know I shall never forget
that action; so good, so supernatural.

And when he has swung himself out, abashed by my refusal, embarrassed
by the unusual size of his legs and his heart, I sit down in a corner,