He had at last found what he was looking for--one of those stamped folded papers, interlined and riddled with references, where the impassible law makes itself responsible for so many lies. Mme. Jenkins was going to say: “But I was here. I would have carried out all his wishes, all his orders--” when she suddenly understood by the coolness of her visitor, his easy, almost insolent attitude, that she was included in this clearing up, in the getting rid of the costly mansion and useless riches, and that her departure would be the signal for the sale. She rose suddenly. The man, still seated, went on: “What I have still to say, madame”--oh, she knew it, she could have dictated to him, what he had still to say--“is so painful, so delicate. M. Jenkins is leaving Paris for a long time, and in the fear of exposing you to the hazards and adventures of the new life he is undertaking, of taking you away from a son you cherish, and in whose interest perhaps you had better----” She heard no more, saw no more, and while he was spinning out his gossamer phrases, given over to despair, she heard the song over and over in her mind, as the last image seen pursues a drowning man: Le temps nous enleve Notre enchantement. All at once her pride returned. “Let us put a stop to this, sir. All your turns and phrases are only an additional insult. The fact is that I am driven out--turned into the street like a servant.” “Oh, madame, madame! The situation is cruel enough, don’t let us make it worse by hard words. In the evolution of his _modus vivendi_ M. Jenkins has to separate from you, but he does so with the greatest pain to himself; and the proposals which I am charged to make are a proof of his sentiments for you. First, as to furniture and clothes, I am authorized to let you take--” “That will do,” said she. She flew to the bell. “I am going out. Quick--my hat, my mantle, anything, never mind what. I am in a hurry.” And while they went to fetch her what she wanted she said: “Everything here belongs to M. Jenkins. Let him dispose of it as he likes. I want nothing from him. Don’t insist; it is useless.” The man did not insist. His mission fulfilled, the rest mattered little to him. Steadily, coldly, she arranged her hat carefully before the glass, the maid fastening her veil, and arranging on her shoulders the folds of her mantle, then she looked round her and considered for a moment whether she was forgetting anything precious to her. No, nothing--her son’s letters were in her pocket, she never allowed them to be away from her. “Madame does not wish for the carriage?” “No.” And she left the house.