“You are weary,” he said, seeing that I did not reply. “I have been running on without a thought of your condition! What a nurse I am! There, you must sleep,” and without heeding my protests he gathered up the dishes and left the room, closing the door behind him. But I could not sleep. My brain was full of what he had told me. I saw Madame la Duchesse de Roquefort moving like a queen among her vassals. There existed no longer Claire, the sweet, simple, ingenuous girl I had known, new to the world, fresh from the convent--there was now only the great lady. M. le Comte himself, great as he was, had been proud to bend his head and kiss her hand. Who was great enough, strong enough, bold enough, to aspire to her lips? Well, I would still love the girl--I would hold her locked in my heart--the great lady might go her way. And I thought of her as she had been on that last night of all--I felt again her warm, sweet body in my arms--I gazed again into her eyes and saw love there--I heard again her voice--“And mine for you! Every beat of it!” God! And a moment later she had fallen! It was long before I slept, but tired nature asserted herself at last, and it was not until another morning dawned that she lifted her weights from off my eyes. This time it was Briquet I found at my bedside, and I noted again how his face had softened and grown human. He smiled as he saw my eyes on his. “You are better,” he said. “It is easy to see that. You will soon be quite well.” Again the voice--where had I heard it? I must penetrate this mystery. “M. Briquet,” I began, “my friend has told me how deeply I am indebted to your care, and I wish to thank you. But have we not met before?” “I should not think you would forget it,” he answered readily. “I was called to attend d’Aurilly--and you.” “Yes--I know,” I said impatiently. “But before that?” He hesitated a moment, then drew from his pocket a small book, tore out a strip of paper, and wrote upon it a rapid sentence. “I am quite willing that you should know,” he said. “In fact, I believed that you already knew,” and he held the paper before my eyes. “Monsieur,” I read, “I have learned of your demeanor at the question, and am grateful, for I am he who brought the warning to Marsan.” There could be no mistaking the handwriting, and I looked at him amazed. “It was you, then,” I stammered,--“you.” “Yes, I. Looking up at me from the rack, I thought you knew me.” “No,” I said, still looking at him wonderingly. “I could not place you. I did not suspect----”