“Her nieces had come to sit by her bedside; and I was expressly forbidden to enter the room. They had understood that this was an excellent opportunity to get rid of me forever. “Evidently gained in advance, the physicians declared to my poor benefactress that the air of La Jonchere was fatal to her, and that her only chance of recovery was to establish herself in Paris. One of her nephews offered to have her taken to his house in a litter. She would soon get well, they said; and she could then go to finish her convalescence in some southern city. “Her first word was for me. She did not wish to be separated from me, she protested, and insisted absolutely upon taking me with her. Her nephews represented gravely to her that this was an impossibility; that she must not think of burdening herself with me; that the simplest thing was to leave me at La Jonchere; and that, moreover, they would see that I should get a good situation. “The sick woman struggled for a long time, and with an energy of which I would not have thought her capable. “But the others were pressing. The physicians kept repeating that they could not answer for any thing, if she did not follow their advice. She was afraid of death. She yielded, weeping. “The very next morning, a sort of litter, carried by eight men, stopped in front of the door. My poor mistress was laid into it; and they carried her off, without even permitting me to kiss her for the last time. “Two hours later, the cook and the chambermaid were dismissed. As to myself, the nephew who had promised to look after me put a twenty-franc-piece in my hand saying, ‘Here are your eight days in advance. Pack up your things immediately, and clear out!’” It was impossible that Mlle. Lucienne should not be deeply moved whilst thus stirring the ashes of her past. She showed no evidence of it, however, except, now and then, a slight alteration in her voice. As to Maxence, he would vainly have tried to conceal the passionate interest with which he was listening to these unexpected confidences. “Have you, then, never seen your benefactress again?” he asked. “Never,” replied Mlle. Lucienne. “All my efforts to reach her have proved fruitless. She does not live in Paris now. I have written to her: my letters have remained without answer. Did she ever get them? I think not. Something tells me that she has not forgotten me.” She remained silent for a few moments, as if collecting herself before resuming the thread of her narrative. And then,