When we arrived in
front of the little house in which I had lived for a year at
Neuilly, on the boulevard Maillot, he said to me:
"Are you afraid?"
"What an idea!"
"But this house is so isolated....no neighbors....vacant
lots....Really, I am not a coward, and yet---"
"Well, you are very cheering, I must say."
"Oh! I say that as I would say anything else. The Saint-Martins
have impressed me with their stories of brigands and thieves."
We shook hands and said good-night. I took out my key and opened
the door.
"Well, that is good," I murmured, "Antoine has forgotten to light a
candle."
Then I recalled the fact that Antoine was away; I had given him a
short leave of absence. Forthwith, I was disagreeably oppressed by
the darkness and silence of the night. I ascended the stairs on
tiptoe, and reached my room as quickly as possible; then, contrary
to my usual habit, I turned the key and pushed the bolt.
The light of my candle restored my courage. Yet I was careful to
take my revolver from its case--a large, powerful weapon--and place
it beside my bed. That precaution completed my reassurance. I
laid down and, as usual, took a book from my night-table to read
myself to sleep.
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