I filled a glass with St. Galmier, and gave it to him to drink. I held it to his mouth as though he were a child. He gulped down a mouthful, and some of it was spilt on his shirt-front. “Who’s killed herself?” I do not know why I asked, for I knew whom he meant. He made an effort to collect himself. “They had a row last night. He went away.” “Is she dead?” “No; they’ve taken her to the hospital.” “Then what are you talking about?” I cried impatiently. “Why did you say she’d killed herself?” “Don’t be cross with me. I can’t tell you anything if you talk to me like that.” I clenched my hands, seeking to control my irritation. I attempted a smile. “I’m sorry. Take your time. Don’t hurry, there’s a good fellow.” His round blue eyes behind the spectacles were ghastly with terror. The magnifying-glasses he wore distorted them. “When the concierge went up this morning to take a letter she could get no answer to her ring. She heard someone groaning. The door wasn’t locked, and she went in. Blanche was lying on the bed. She’d been frightfully sick. There was a bottle of oxalic acid on the table.” Stroeve hid his face in his hands and swayed backwards and forwards, groaning. “Was she conscious?” “Yes. Oh, if you knew how she’s suffering! I can’t bear it. I can’t bear it.” His voice rose to a shriek. “Damn it all, you haven’t got to bear it,” I cried impatiently. “She’s got to bear it.” “How can you be so cruel?” “What have you done?” “They sent for a doctor and for me, and they told the police. I’d given the concierge twenty francs, and told her to send for me if anything happened.” He paused a minute, and I saw that what he had to tell me was very hard to say. “When I went she wouldn’t speak to me. She told them to send me away. I swore that I forgave her everything, but she wouldn’t listen. She tried to beat her head against the wall. The doctor told me that I mustn’t remain with her. She kept on saying, ‘Send him away!’ I went, and waited in the studio. And when the ambulance came and they put her on a stretcher, they made me go in the kitchen so that she shouldn’t know I was there.” While I dressed—for Stroeve wished me to go at once with him to the hospital—he told me that he had arranged for his wife to have a private room, so that she might at least be spared the sordid promiscuity of a ward. On our way he explained to me why he desired my presence; if she still refused to see him, perhaps she would see me. He begged me to repeat to her that he loved her still; he would reproach her for nothing, but desired only to help her; he made no claim on her, and on her recovery would not seek to induce her to return to him; she would be perfectly free.