“'Your wife?'
“'A friend.'
“'One may love a friend as much as they love their wife. Love has no law.'
“'Yes, madame.'
“And we set off together, she leaning on my arm, while I almost carried her along the paths of the cemetery. When we got outside she faltered:
“'I feel as if I were going to be ill.'
“'Would you like to go in anywhere, to take something?'
“'Yes, monsieur.'
“I perceived a restaurant, one of those places where the mourners of the dead go to celebrate the funeral. We went in. I made her drink a cup of hot tea, which seemed to revive her. A faint smile came to her lips. She began to talk about herself. It was sad, so sad to be always alone in life, alone in one's home, night and day, to have no one on whom one can bestow affection, confidence, intimacy.
“That sounded sincere. It sounded pretty from her mouth. I was touched. She was very young, perhaps twenty. I paid her compliments, which she took in good part. Then, as time was passing, I suggested taking her home in a carriage. She accepted, and in the cab we sat so close that our shoulders touched.