But I have been writing for a long time, I am tired. My mistress is waiting for me. She sleeps, she is still sleeping. Perhaps, with them, there is no sleep. She tastes for the first time the happiness of not living.... FINAL NOTE M. JAMES SANDY ROSE was found sitting at his work-table, his head laid on his desk. He seemed asleep, and he was dead. The pen had escaped from his fingers, and rolled to the ground, leaving a large blot of ink on the paper. After the word "vivre "[1] comes the first letter of a word that ends in a serpentine scrawl. This letter is doubtless a V, and perhaps, as would have been fairly characteristic of his style, he was going to begin a new phrase with this same word, _Vivre_, when death struck him down. All this is of small importance. Besides, we are giving a facsimile of the last page of this manuscript whose singular aspect has, no doubt, a psychological value. It has already been seen that the death of M. J. Sandy Rose was spoken of by the newspapers under the title of "The Mystery of the Rue de Médicis." Their account, without being altogether inaccurate, was very incomplete. Here is exactly what happened, or at least what I saw and knew. Sandy Rose called at my rooms almost every day at about five o'clock, on his way to the post. I live in the Rue de Tournon, behind an old garden. We used to go out together, and often dined together. On the 11th of February, as I had not seen him for three or four days, I decided to go to his rooms. It was half-past three. The concierge, at first, dissuaded me from going up, and assured me that M. Sandy Rose was away. A bundle of letters and several telegrams were awaiting him. [Illustration: Manuscript.] "What if he is ill?" I said. "What if he is dead?" "Oh! But how am I to find out? How am I to open his door? We should have to have a locksmith, witnesses, the commissaire...." Without answering, I bolted up the stair-case. When I reached the door, on the fifth landing, I rang, knocked very loudly, and then bent to look through the crack, or glue my ear to the keyhole. It was dark, a small iron thing went into my eye. The key was in the door. At that moment, I heard the voice of the concierge, who had followed me. "Well! You see!" "The key is in the door." "Impossible; it was not there yesterday evening, and he has certainly not come in." "Look!" And I turned the key. The door opened. The flat consisted of the kitchen, on the left as one went in, and three rooms opening into each other, along the street. We opened three more doors. The last let us see the spectacle I have described. The death was recent. The body was cold, but not frozen, and the fingers of the right hand, which was hanging over the arm of the chair, were still supple. Later on the doctor declared that death must have occurred about twelve hours before my arrival.