hoarse voice which would wake him from his fictitious nightmare.

Will you have another sample of this prodigious imagination? It is
raining, freezing; wretched weather. M. Joyeuse has taken the omnibus
to go to his office. Finding himself seated opposite a sort of colossus,
with the head of a brute and formidable biceps, M. Joyeuse, himself very
small, very puny, with his portfolio on his knees, draws in his legs in
order to make room for the enormous columns which support the monumental
body of his neighbour. As the vehicle moves on and as the rain beats on
the windows, M. Joyeuse falls into reverie. And suddenly the colossus
opposite, whose face is kind after all, is very much surprised to see
the little man change colour, look at him and grind his teeth, look at
him with ferocious eyes, an assassin's eyes. Yes, with the eyes of a
veritable assassin, for at that moment M. Joyeuse is dreaming a terrible
dream. He sees one of his daughters sitting there opposite him, by the
side of this giant brute, and the wretch has put his arm round her waist
under her cape.

"Remove your hand, sir!" M. Joyeuse has already said twice over. The
other has only sneered. Now he wishes to kiss Elise.

"Ah, rascal!"

Too feeble to defend his daughter, M. Joyeuse, foaming with rage, draws
his knife from his pocket, stabs the insolent fellow full in the breast,
and with head high goes off, strong in the right of an outraged father,
to make his declaration at the nearest police-station.

"I have just killed a man in an omnibus!" At the sound of his own voice
actually uttering these sinister words, but not in the police-station,