"Ah! Yes . . . my God! A woman just like others."
"I should think so. . . . This does not tell me her name, however, nor who she is."
Lirat was rummaging in his paint box. He answered carelessly:
"And so you want to know the name of that woman. . . . Strange curiosity! . . . Her name is Juliette Roux. . . . As for biographical information, the police can furnish you all you want, I imagine. . . . I presume that Juliette Roux gets up late, that she has her fortune told by cards, that she is deceiving and ruining as well as she can that poor Charles Malterre, an excellent chap whom you met here sometime ago, and whose mistress she is, for the time being. . . . Lastly, she is like other women, only with this difference, which makes her case worse: she is more beautiful than most of them and consequently more foolish and more malicious. . . . That sofa there, that you are sitting on . . . it was Charles who broke it by lying and crying on it for entire days, while telling me his troubles, you understand? One day he caught her with a croupier of a gambling club, on another day with a buffoon at the Bouffes theatre.
"There was also an affair with the wrestler of Neuilly, to whom she gave twenty francs and Charles' old trousers. As you see, it's full of idylls. . . . I like Malterre very much. . . because he is good-natured and his lack of sense evokes my pity. . . . He really has my sympathy. . . . But what can one say to such men, to whom love is the greatest thing in life and who can't see a woman's back without tacking on to it wings of dreams and sending it flying to the stars. . . . Nothing, isn't that true? . . . So much so that the unfortunate fellow, in the midst of his rage and sobs, could brag about the fact that Juliette had received a good education. He used to take pride in the fact
