The Saint-Martins went away in an automobile. Jean Daspry⁠—that delightful, heedless Daspry who, six months later, was killed in such a tragic manner on the frontier of Morocco⁠—Jean Daspry and I returned on foot through the dark, warm night. 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.