He was a thin, tall man, in spectacles, a lawyer, not a man; a procès-verbal in a tightly buttoned frock-coat.
And I had to face this individual, who seemed less an individual than a roll of parchment, and, with my heart breaking and my thoughts elsewhere, answer questions relative to my relations with De Coigny.
"We have always hated each other, since boyhood. He lied about me, and I killed him," was my answer.
"This lady who arrived on the scene of the duel, and with whom you departed; where is she?"
"Ah, if you could tell me that," I replied, "I would give you every penny of my fortune."
"Her name?"
"She has no name."
"No name!"
"She is a ghost."
The man of parchment scratched his head and made a note, looked sideways through his spectacles at his clerk and at De Brissac and the other seconds who were in the room.