Moon-madness, and other fantasies

by Aimée Crocker Gouraud

“She left Paris as soon as Paul Gaspard was in his grave,” said the proprietor.

“Where did she go?” said the man.

“To St. Petersburg—with a Russian duke,” said the proprietor.

“Is she there now?” said the man.

“No, she is at Monte Carlo,” said the proprietor.

“With the Russian duke?” said the man.

“No, she is there alone,” said the proprietor.

“Where is the Russian duke?” said the man.

“He is dead,” said the proprietor.

“Dead?” said the man.