That was a rousing night at the tavern of _The Scarlet Jackass_. The room was choked with the wild rioting bohemians. “Waiter!” “Waiter!” “Waiter!” “Yes, sir--mon Dieu!--one minute--one minute.” The waiters rushed to and fro, perspiring, white aprons flying. The glass went round. So the place roared with laughter and riot and noisy good-fellowship and song. As the crowd began to thin out, and the place emptied of all but the regular frequenters, the old mad poet, his chin sunk on his chest where he snored in a chair, his wreath of roses askew over his ear, roused and asked for André Joyeux--he regretted that he had not been there--he missed his waggeries. At the mention of his name they called the head-waiter, who lay a-drouse in a corner. No, he had not seen the master since sundown. There had been no time to go and see him--but he had only to ring his bell should he have need of anything. He was sleeping, they trusted, content that his tavern was filled to overflowing--he had need of sleep--much sleep. Yes, yes; it had been a mad night indeed--a great night. Yes; the English gentlemen might go up and see the master if they would but go very quietly--yes, they might all go, if they would but go very quietly, in case he slept---- Noll and Horace stumbled up the dark stair that was but half revealed in the smoky haze of the dusk that goes before the dawn. Opening the door stealthily, they looked in, and saw that amongst the other departing shadows that lingered there, a dead man lay stretched upon the floor, the scarlet brand of a bullet-wound on his pale brow. The red blood showed on the white skin, a waxen seal upon his last mysterious testament. And as the others, befogged with the potations of their riot, entered the room, close-following at their heels, they solemnly took off their hats--the old mad poet last of all and with a mighty hiccup. Yes, André Joyeux slept at last--and slept well. He would ring no more for sleeping-draughts. He had no more needs. His philosophies were at an end. In a loud burst of merriment that had echoed from below, he had taken his life, the pistol unheard in the frantic applause. They lifted up the poor lifeless body and placed it upon the bed--the arms restless no longer now--the body still, in the strange silence of death. An old bohemian stepped forward and looked down on the pallid peaceful face; stooped and kissed the dead man upon the cheek. He stood and looked down upon him. “He took me from beggary and starvation in a garret,” said he.... “Ah, that was an artist! And--he knew how to live. He----” CHAPTER LXIV _Wherein the Angel of the Annunciation enters into a Garret_ As the chill grey of an April dawn crept across her silent garret, sweeping the frayed shadow of the night aside to join other lurking shadows in gloomy corners, Betty, in white night-robe, was awakened and sat up in bed, all in a strange wonder and alarm.