"He desires to see you. He went out in spite of my warnings. Figure to yourself on such a day, in such a state of health. He returned almost immediately, wearing the look of Death itself. He sank upon the first step of the staircase. When I rushed to his assistance he held to his lips a handkerchief stained with blood! We were compelled to carry him up-stairs." She stood a moment, feeling her throat and lips suddenly become dry and parched. "And he asked--for me?" she said at last. "When he would speak, Mademoiselle--yes. We do not know why. He said, in a very faint voice, 'She said she would come.'" She went up the staircase slowly and mechanically, as one who moves in a dream. And yet when she reached the door of the studio she was obliged to wait for a few seconds before opening it. When she did open it she saw the attic seemed even more cold and bare than usual; that there was no fire; that the American lay upon the bed, his eyes closed, the hectic spots faded from his cheeks. But when she approached and stood near him, he opened his eyes and looked at her with a faint smile. "If--I play you--the poor trick of--dying," he said, "you will remember--that the picture--if you care for it--is yours." After a while, the doctor, who had been sent for, arrived. Perhaps he had been in no great hurry when he had heard that his services were required by an artist who lay in a garret in the Latin Quarter. His visit was a short one. He asked a few questions, wrote a prescription, and went away. He looked at Natalie oftener than at the sick man. She followed him out on to the landing, and then he regarded her with greater interest than before. "He is very ill?" she said. "Yes," he answered. "He will die, of course, sooner or later." "You speak calmly, Monsieur," she said. "Such cases are an old story," he replied. "And--you are not his wife?" "No." "I thought not. Nevertheless, perhaps you will remain with him until--" "As Monsieur says," she returned, "I will remain with him 'until--'" When the sick man awoke from the sleep into which he had fallen, a fire burned in the stove and a woman's figure was seated before it. "You are here yet?" he said faintly. She rose and moved toward him. "I am not going away," she answered, "if you will permit me to remain." His eyes shone with pathetic brightness, and he put out his hand. "You are very kind--to a poor--weak fellow," he whispered. "After all--it is a desolate thing--to lie awake through the night--in a place like this." When the doctor returned the next morning, he appeared even a shade disconcerted. He had thought it quite likely that upon his second visit he might find a scant white sheet drawn over the narrow bed, and that it would not be necessary for him to remain or call again; but it appeared that his patient might require his attention yet a few days longer. "You have not left him at all," he said to Natalie. "It is easy to see you did not sleep last night."