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;