"Poor Monsieur Very," continued the abbé, "was on the couch before me, dying! The concierge had left the chamber, but there was still a third person present, who scarce seemed to belong to such a place."
The abbé saw my earnestness, and provokingly sipped his wine.
"This is very good wine, monsieur," said the abbé.
"Was she pretty?" said I.
"Beautiful," said the abbé, earnestly.
I filled the abbé's glass. The garçon had taken away the fricandeau, and served us with poulet roti.
"Had she a light dress, and long, wavy ringlets?" said I.
"She was beautiful," said the abbé, "and her expression was so sweet, so gentle, so sad—ah, mon ami—ah, pauvre—pauvre fille!"
The abbé had laid down his fork; he held his napkin to his face.
"And so poor Very died?" said I.