green eyes with golden lights in them."

"I am glad you have never been loved by this one," returned the
composer gravely; "she has a curious history. All her lovers, without
exception, have committed suicide."

"What?" said de Fronsac, staring.

"It is very queer. One of them had just inherited a hundred thousand
francs--he hanged himself. Another, an author from Italy, took poison,
while all Rome was reading his novel. To be infatuated by her is
harmless enough, but to win her is invariably fatal within a few weeks.
Some time ago she attached herself to one of the troupe, and soon
afterwards he discovered she was deceiving him. He resolved to shoot
her. He pointed a pistol at her breast. She simply laughed--and
_looked at him_. He turned the pistol on himself, and blew his
brains out!"

De Fronsac had already written: "Here is the extraordinary history of a
girl whom I discovered in a fair." The next moment:

"But you repeat a rumour," he objected. "_La Voix Parisienne_ has
a reputation; odd as the fact may appear to you, people read it. If
this is published in _La Voix_ it will attract attention. Soon she
will be promoted from a tent in a fair to a stage in Paris. Well, what
happens? You tell me she is beautiful, so she will have hundreds of
admirers. Among the hundreds there will be one she favours. And then?
Unless he committed suicide in a few weeks, the paper would be proved a
liar. I should not be able to sleep of nights for fear he would not
kill himself."