companion threw herself on a divan, breathing fast with terror, not
knowing where she was.

"You are mad, madame," I said to her.

"But," she rejoined, after a moment's silence, during which I gazed at
her in admiration, "is it my fault? Why does Madame de Lanty allow
ghosts to wander round her house?"

"Nonsense," I replied; "you are doing just what fools do. You mistake
a little old man for a spectre."

"Hush," she retorted, with the imposing, yet mocking, air which all
women are so well able to assume when they are determined to put
themselves in the right. "Oh! what a sweet boudoir!" she cried,
looking about her. "Blue satin hangings always produce an admirable
effect. How cool it is! Ah! the lovely picture!" she added, rising and
standing in front of a magnificently framed painting.

We stood for a moment gazing at that marvel of art, which seemed the
work of some supernatural brush. The picture represented Adonis
stretched out on a lion's skin. The lamp, in an alabaster vase,
hanging in the centre of the boudoir, cast upon the canvas a soft
light which enabled us to grasp all the beauties of the picture.

"Does such a perfect creature exist?" she asked me, after examining
attentively, and not without a sweet smile of satisfaction, the
exquisite grace of the outlines, the attitude, the color, the hair, in
fact everything.