"I left him in the hospital, more puzzled than ever as to who could be the occupant of your little chamber. He seemed to me to have seen better days; and as for your lady of the slipper, it was so long before I saw any female with Monsieur Very, that I began to think she had no existence, save in your lively imagination." Here the abbe sipped his wine. "You saw her at length, then?" said I. "_Attendez._ One evening I caught a glimpse of the tall gentleman going into the court of his hotel, with a lady closely muffled in black upon his arm." "And she had a pretty foot?" "Ah, _mon ami_, it was too dark to see." "And did you see her again?" "_Attendez._ (The abbe sipped his wine.) For a month I saw neither monsieur nor mademoiselle. I passed the court early and late; I even went up to St. Louis, but the sick man was gone. The whole matter had nearly dropped from my mind, when one night--it was late, and very dark--the little bell at the wicket rung, and presently there was a loud rap at my door. It was the concierge of the next court; a man he said was dying, and a priest was wanted. "I hurried over, and followed the concierge up, I know not how many stairs, into a miserable little chamber. There was a yellow placard at the window--" I filled the abbe's glass and my own. "Poor Monsieur Very," continued the abbe, "was on the couch before me, dying! The concierge had left the chamber, but there was still a third person present, who scarce seemed to belong to such a place." The abbe saw my earnestness, and provokingly sipped his wine. "This is very good wine, monsieur," said the abbe. "Was she pretty?" said I. "Beautiful," said the abbe, earnestly. I filled the abbe's glass. The garcon had taken away the _fricandeau_, and served us with _poulet roti_. "Had she a light dress, and long, wavy ringlets?" said I. "She was beautiful," said the abbe, "and her expression was so sweet, so gentle, so sad--ah, _mon ami_--_ah, pauvre_--_pauvre fille!_" The abbe had laid down his fork; he held his napkin to his face. "And so poor Very died?" said I. "It was a sad sight," said the abbe. "And he confessed to you?" "I was too late, _mon ami_; he murmured a word or two in my ear I could not understand. He confessed to God." "And mademoiselle--" "She sat at the foot of the couch when I went in, with her hands clasped in her lap, and her eyes fixed on the poor gentleman's face; now and then a tear rolled off her cheeks--but she did not know it. "Presently the dying man beckoned to her. She stole softly to the head of the couch, and laid her little white hand in his withered fingers. "'Marie,' said he, 'dear Marie, I shall be gone--soon.' "The poor girl burst into tears, and gathered up the palsied hand of the old man in both hers, as if she would not let him go. "'Marie,' continued he, very feebly, 'you will want a friend.' "Again the poor girl answered by a burst of tears. She could say nothing.