Louise's last days with us were passed in tears,--poor Louise! who until now had laughed at fate. It was at this juncture that M. Auguste came out strong. I could not have believed he had it in him. He no longer spent his time dodging J. and dealing in visionary horses. He took Louise's place boldly. He made the beds, cooked all our meals, waited on us, dusted, opened the door, while Louise sat, melancholy and forlorn, in front of the kitchen fire. On the last day of all--she was not to start until the afternoon Continental train--she drew me mysteriously into the dining-room, she shut the door with every precaution, she showed me where she had sewed the extra sovereigns in her stays. M. Auguste should never know. "_Je pars pour mon long voyage_," she repeated. "_J'ai mes pressentiments._" And she was going to ask them to let her wear a black skirt I had given her, and an old coat of J.'s she had turned into a bodice, when the time came to lay her in her coffin. Thus something of ours would go with her on the long journey. How could she forget us? How could we forget her? she might better have asked. I made a thousand excuses to leave her; Louise playing "the comedy" had never been so tragic as Louise in tears. But she would have me back again, and again, and again, to tell me how happy she had been with us. "Why, I was at home," she said, her surprise not yet outworn. "_J'etais chez moi, et j'etais si tranquille._ I went. I came. _Monsieur_ entered. He called me. '_Louise._'--'_Oui, Monsieur._'--'_Voulez-vous faire ceci ou cela?_'--'_Mais oui, Monsieur, de suite._' And I would do it and _Monsieur_ would say, '_Merci, Louise_,' and he would go. And me, I would run quick to the kitchen or upstairs to finish my work. _J'etais si tranquille!_" The simplicity of the memories she treasured made her story of them pitiful as I listened. How little peace had fallen to her lot, that she should prize the quiet and homeliness of her duties in our chambers! At last it was time to go. She kissed me on both cheeks. She gave J. one look, then she flung herself into his arms and kissed him too on both cheeks. She almost strangled William Penn. She sobbed so, she couldn't speak. She clutched and kissed us again. She ran out of the door and we heard her sobbing down the three flights of stairs into the street. J. hurried into his workroom. I went back to my desk. I don't think we could have spoken either. Two days afterwards, a letter from M. Auguste came to our chambers, so empty and forlorn without Louise. They were in Paris. They had had a dreadful crossing,--he hardly thought Louise would arrive at Boulogne alive. She was better, but must rest a day or two before starting for the _Midi_. She begged us to see that Mussy ate his meals _bien regulierement_, and that he "made the dead" from time to time, as she had taught him; and, would we write? The address was Mr. Auguste, Horse-Dealer, Hotel du Cheval Blanc, Rue Chat-qui-peche-a-la-ligne, Paris.