As I expressed my surprise, my guide said:
“Oh, they often come here to chat.” He continued: “The public corridors are similar, but more simply furnished.”
In reply to a question of mine, he pointed to a couch covered with creamy crepe de Chine with white embroidery, beneath a large shrub of unknown variety at the foot of which was a circular bed of mignonette.
The secretary added in a lower tone:
“We change the flower and the perfume at will, for our gas, which is quite imperceptible, gives death the fragrance of the suicide’s favorite flower. It is volatilized with essences. Would you like to inhale it for a second?”
“‘No, thank you,” I said hastily, “not yet....”
He began to laugh.
“Oh, monsieur, there is no danger. I have tried it myself several times.”
I was afraid he would think me a coward, and I said:
“Well, I’ll try it.”