Little Poems in Prose

XLVII MISS BISTOURI AS I came to the end of the suburb under the gaslight I felt an arm slipped gently under mine, and heard a voice which said in my ear, “Are you a doctor, Sir?” I looked; it was a tall girl, strongly built, with wide-open eyes, slightly rouged, her hair floating in the wind with her bonnet strings. “No, I am not a doctor, I am sure of it. Come home with me, you will be very pleased with me, I know.” “Doubtless I will come and see you, later on.” “Ah, ah,” said she, still clinging to my arm and shaking with laughter, “you are a doctor who is fond of his joke; I have known several like that; come along.” I passionately love the mysterious, because I always hope to unravel it; so I let myself be carried off by this companion, or rather by this unhoped-for problem. I omit the description of her garret. You may find it in plenty of classical French poets;