certain town; and yet the street in which we are is quite familiar to us: we have seen this shop before, that sign-board, this gable, that turning. Where and when? In what bygone existence? Or is it only an illusion awakened in our brain by a series of similar pictures?
"This is the drawing-room," said Gilberte, before opening the door.
And she amused herself by likewise pointing out, with absolute conviction, the kitchen and the dining-room.
But her astonishment was great indeed when, on the first floor, she entered a large room hung with grey wall-paper, on which birds and butterflies flitted amongst blue flowers. Where had she seen those flowers, those butterflies, those birds before?
She gave a start: in a corner, on the dusty floor, lay a doll, the last stranded relic of all that had once filled the house. And Gilberte knew that doll, knew it beyond a doubt.
She picked it up and, at the first touch of
