Not a few among them were so far touched by the pathos they found in this as to shed a tear or so--most of them were volatile young Frenchmen who counted their sensibilities among their luxuries. Toward evening there came two older than the rest, who had not been long in the house. When they entered, a woman stood at the bed's head--a woman in black drapery, with a pale and haggard face which they saw only for a moment. As they approached she moved away, and going to the window stood there with her back toward them, gazing out at the drifted snow upon the roof. The men stood uncovered, looking down. "It is the face of an Immortal," said the elder of the two. "It is such men who die young." And then they saw the easel in the shadow of the corner, and went and turned it from the wall. When they saw the picture resting upon it, there was a long silence. It was broken at last by the older man. "It is some woman he has known and loved," he said. "He has painted her soul--and his own." The figure near them stirred--the woman's hand crept up to the window's side and clung to the wooden frame. But she did not turn, and was standing so when the strangers moved away, opened the door and passed, with heads still uncovered, down the dark rickety stairs. * * * * * A fiercer cold had never frozen Paris than held it ice and snow bound through this day and the next. When the next came to its close all was over and the studios were quiet again--perhaps a little quieter for a few hours than was their wont. Through this second day Natalie lived--slowly: through the first part of the morning in which people went heavily up and down the stairs; through the later hours when she heard them whispering among themselves upon the landings; through the hour when the footsteps that came down were heavier still, and slower, and impeded with some burden borne with care; through the moment when they rested with this burden upon the landing outside her very door, and inside she crouched against the panels--listening. Then it was all done, and upon those upper floors there was no creature but herself. She had lighted no fire and eaten nothing. She had neither food, fuel, nor money. All was gone. "It is well," she said, "that I am not hungry, and that I would rather be colder than warmer." She did not wish for warmth, even when night fell and brought more biting iciness. She sat by her window in the dark until the moon rose, and though shudders shook her from head to foot, she made no effort to gain warmth. She heard but few sounds from below, but she waited until all was still before she left her place. But at midnight perfect silence had settled upon the house, and she got up and left her room, leaving the key unturned in the lock. "To-morrow, or the day after, perhaps," she said, "they will wish to go in." Then she went up the stairs for the last time.