“My dear, as a last resource, I take up my pen to ask you for assistance. If you could see him your heart would be moved. He is so thin, so thin, and his face has become blue, yes, blue, like the face of a dead man. Help me to save him from himself. If you can send me a note of five hundred francs, I can pay off our indebtedness here, and bring him back to France, where, in a sane country, far from a town, again I can reduce him to a few drops of laudanum a day, and again see him in health and at work. That which it costs me to make this request of you, I have not the words to tell you. But, at the end ot my forces, having no other means, no other support, I confide myself to your well-tried amity. “I give you a good kiss. Jeanne.” If the reading of this letter brought a lump into my throat and something like tears into my eyes—if I hastened to a banker’s, and sent P’tit-Bleu the money she asked for, by telegraph—if I reproached her bitterly and sincerely for not having applied to me long before,—I hope you will believe that it wasn’t for the sake of Monsieur Edouard. They established themselves at St. Etienne, a hamlet on the coast of Normandy, to be farther from Paris. Dieppe was their nearest town. They lived at St.-Etienne for nearly three years. But, periodically, when she had got her house of cards nicely built up—piff!—he would walk into Dieppe. He walked into Dieppe one day in the autumn of 1885, and it took her a week to find him. He was always ill, after one of his grand debauches. This time he was worse than he had ever been before. I can imagine the care with which she nursed him, her anxious watching by his bedside, her prayers, her hopes, the blankness when he died. She came back to Paris, and called three times at my lodgings. But I was in England, and didn’t receive the notes she left till nearly six months afterwards. I have never seen her since, never heard from her. What has become of her? It is not pleasant to conjecture. Of course, after his death, she ought to have died too. But the Angel of this Life, “Whose care is lest men see too much at once,” couldn’t permit any such satisfying termination. So she has simply disappeared, and, in the flesh, may have come to... one would rather not conjecture. All the same, I can’t believe that in the spirit she will have made utter shipwreck. I can’t believe that nothing permanent was won by those long years of love and pain. Her house of cards was toppled over, as often as she built it up; but perhaps she was all the while building another house, a house not made with hands, a house, a temple, indestructible. Poor P’tit-Bleu! THE HOUSE OF EULALIE It was a pretty little house, in very charming country—in an untravelled corner of Normandy, near the sea; a country of orchards and colza fields, of soft green meadows where cattle browsed, and of deep elm-shaded lanes.