He thereupon read it to me. In it Wilde begged ---- to let him finish his _Pharaoh_ in peace, but, in effect, the letter implied that as soon as his play was written he would come back, he would find him again; and it ended with these boastful words, 'and then I shall be once more the King of Life.' V. Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and when once the storm of youth is past, Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death the silent pilot comes at last. [Illustration: THE GRAVE AT BAGNEUX.] V. And a short time afterwards, Wilde went back to Paris.[1] His play was not written--it will never be written now. Society well knows what steps to take when it wants to crush a man, and it has means more subtle than death. Wilde had suffered too grievously for the last two years, and in too submissive a manner, and his will had been broken. For the first few months he might still have entertained illusions, but he soon gave them up. It was as though he had signed his abdication. Nothing remained in his shattered life but a mouldy ruin, painful to contemplate, of his former self. At times he seemed to wish to show that his brain was still active. Humour there was, but it was far-fetched, forced, and threadbare. I met him again on two occasions only. One evening on the Boulevards, where I was walking with G----, I heard my name called. I turned round and saw Wilde. Ah! how changed he was. 'If I appear again before writing my play, the world will refuse to see in me anything except the felon,' he had once said to me. He had appeared again, without his play, and as he found certain doors closed in his face, he no longer sought admission anywhere. He prowled. Friends, at different times, tried to save him[2]. They did all they could think of, and were for taking him to Italy, but he eluded their efforts, and began to drift back. Among those who had remained faithful for the longest time, some had often told me that Wilde was no longer to be seen, and I was somewhat uneasy, I admit, at seeing him again, and what is more, in a place where so many people might pass. Wilde was sitting at a table outside a café. He ordered two cock-tails for G---- and myself. I was going to sit opposite to him in such a way as to turn my back to the passers-by, but Wilde, noticed this movement, which he took as an impulse of absurd shame, (he was not entirely mistaken, I must admit), and said, 'Oh, sit here, near me,' pointing to a chair at his side, 'I am so much alone just now.' Wilde was still well-dressed, but his hat was not so glossy; his collar was of the same shape, but it was not so clean, and the sleeves of his coat were slightly frayed at the edges.