She gave it another glance and a shrill laugh burst from her, but the next instant it broke off and ended in another sound. She fell upon her knees by the empty chair, her open hands flung outward, her sobs strangling her. He stood quite near her, looking down. "I have not thought of anything but my work," he said. "Why should I?" * * * * * The following Sunday night the artist Masson met in going down-stairs a closely veiled figure coming up. He knew it and spoke. "What, Natalie?" he said. "You? One might fancy you had been to church." "I have been," she returned in a cold voice,--"to the church of the Americans in the Rue de Berri." He shrugged his shoulders. "Has it done you good?" he asked. "No," she answered, and walked past him, leaving him to look after her and think the matter over. She went to her own apartment and locked herself in. Having done so, she lighted every candle and lamp--flooding the place with a garish mockery of brightness. She sang as she did it--a gay, shrill air from some _opera bouffe_. She tore off her dark veil and wrappings. Her eyes and cheeks flamed as if touched by some unholy fire. She moved with feverish rapidity here and there--dragging a rich dress from a trunk, and jewels and laces from their places of safe keeping, and began to attire herself in them. The simple black robe she had worn to the chapel lay on the floor. As she moved to and fro she set her feet upon it again and again, and as she felt it beneath her tread a harsh smile touched her lips. "I shall not wear you again," she stopped her song once to say. In half an hour she had made her toilette. She stood before her glass, a blaze of color and jewels. For a moment she sang no more. From one of the rooms below there floated up to her sounds of riotous merriment. "_This_ is myself," she said; "_this_ is no other." She opened her door and ran down the staircase swiftly and lightly. The founder of the feast whose sounds she had heard was a foolish young fellow who adored her madly. He was rich, and wicked, and simple. Because he had heard of her return he had taken an apartment in the house. She heard his voice above the voices of the rest. In a moment she had flung open the door of the _salon_ and stood upon the threshold. At sight of her there arose a rapturous shout of delight. "Natalie! Natalie! Welcome!" But instantaneously it died away. One second she stood there, brilliant, smiling, defiant. The next, they saw that a mysterious change had seized upon her. She had become deathly white, and was waving them from her with a wild gesture. "I am not coming," she cried, breathlessly. "No! No! No!" And the next instant they could only gaze at each others' terror-stricken faces, at the place she had left vacant,--for she was gone.