“And so the working in the shoe-shop was at an end, with the smell of wax and leather, and the horrors of Chateau d’Or were past, and there were people foolish enough to say that it paid after all to marry a madman when the end had brought such peace. To Eugenie, Anna had often written, and when all was over she wrote again telling of the death. Then the French inconsistency of character showed itself, and the woman to whom Haverleigh had always been kind and indulgent, wept and refused to be comforted, partly for her loss, and more, I think, because no provision had been made for her. “‘_Mon dieu!_’ she wrote to Anna, ‘to think no little legacee _pour moi_, who have given everything for him. Not so much as one, what you say, one dollar, and I so poor, too. Not so much to buy one pair of gloves, and they so cheap at _Au Bon Marche, trois francs et demi_, and so good. Shall I send you a box of black—bah, _non, ma cherie_. You not wear that for he, but _me_, I must wear _crepe_, and bombasin, one leetle month, for my heart all French, all _crepe_, all ache, _douleur_, for the bad monsieur, who once love Eugenie. He have account at bank and I draw check at will, and have draw till only one thousand franc left, which you make two hundred dollars. Then what I must do? I grow old and want no more monsieur—bah! I hate him all. I look in my glass and see Eugenie most forty, with some gray hairs, some wrinkles, which paste will not cover. No monsieur want me for wife: I want no monsieur. So I must work; must hang out the sign, ‘_Robes et Costumes. Madame Eugenie_,’ and tie to it some bonnets and caps. Oh, but it will go hard after all the ease, to have so many girls round, and I must scold them all the time; perhaps I act again, but it I hate so much; it brings me _les messieurs_ again, and I won’t have it. For you, you so happy with _beaucoup de l’argent_, no more nasty shop, no more wax, no more leather, no more smell-bad; but for me leather, and wax, and smell-bad, _toujours, toujours_. _Mon Dieu_, ’tis quite hard, and I give all to him, all, and if he not die, what you call him, crazy, he remember Eugenie in his—his little last testament, you call it, or some book like that. Oh, me, I starve, I die. I have the many girls around me with the bad to sew, and you have the silk, the satin, the opera, and the lunch at _Trois Freres—bien_—’tis right, but hard, and it takes so few money to set me up, quite. _Me comprenez vous?_’ “Anna did understand the hint, and sent to the Frenchwoman, who had done her great service, ten thousand dollars, which Eugenie acknowledged with rapture. “‘Enough, with _prudency_ and _save_, to keep me lady all my life. No need for the girls now to sew _les robes_; no leather, no wax, no smell-bad, forevermore, but highly respectable woman, who let rooms to _les Americains_ and bring them _cafe_ in the morning.’