Only of one thing were we sure: however hideous or horrible the evil, M. Auguste had worked "down there," under the hot sun of Provence, Louise had no part in it. She knew--it was the reason of her curious reticences, of her sacrifice of herself to him. That he loved her was inevitable. Who could help loving her? She was so intelligent, so graceful, so gay. But that she should love M. Auguste would have been incomprehensible, were it not in the nature of woman to love the man who is most selfish in his dependence upon her. She did all the work, and he had all the pleasure of it. He was always decently dressed, there was always money in his pocket, though she, who earned it, never had a penny to spend on herself. No matter how busy and hurried she might be, she had always the leisure to talk to him, to amuse him when he came in, always the courage to laugh, like the little Fleurance in the story. What would you? She was made like that. She had always laughed, when she was sad as when she was gay. And while she was making life delightful for him, she was doing for us what three Englishwomen combined could not have done so well, and with a charm that all the Englishwomen in the world could not have mustered among them. She had been with us about a year when I began to notice that, at moments, her face was clouded and her smile less ready. At first, I put it down to her endless comedy with M. Auguste. But, after a bit, it looked as if the trouble were more serious even than his histrionics. It was nothing, she laughed when I spoke to her; it would pass. And she went on amusing and providing for M. Auguste and working for us. But by the time the dark days of November set in, we were more worried about her than ever. The crisis came with Christmas. On Christmas Day, friends were to dine with us, and we invited _Mademoiselle_, the French dressmaker, to eat her Christmas dinner with Louise and M. Auguste. We were very staid in the dining-room,--it turned out rather a dull affair. But in the kitchen it was an uproarious feast. Though she lived some distance away, though on Christmas night London omnibuses are few and far between, _Mademoiselle_ could hardly be persuaded to go home, so much was she enjoying herself. Louise was all laughter. "You have been amused?" I asked, when _Mademoiselle_, finally and reluctantly, had been bundled off by J. in a hansom. "_Mais oui, mais oui_," M. Auguste cried, pleasure in his voice. "_Cette pauvre Mademoiselle!_ Her life, it is so sad, she is so alone. It is good for her to be amused. We have told her many stories,--_et des histoires un tout petit peu salees, n'est-ce pas? pour egayer cette pauvre Mademoiselle?_" It was the day after the feast that Louise had to give in. She confessed she had been in torture while she served our dinner and _Mademoiselle_ was there. She could hardly eat or drink. But why make it sad for all the world because she was in pain? and she had laughed, she had laughed!