She no longer heard or saw him, but, given over to despair, to madness perhaps, while he lost himself in involved sentences, she listened to a voice within persistently singing the air which haunted her in that terrible crash, as the drowning man's eyes retain the image of the last object upon which they rested. "Le temps nous enleve Notre enchantement." Suddenly her pride returned to her. "Let us put an end to this, Monsieur. All your circumlocution and your fine words are simply an additional insult. The truth is that I am to be driven out, turned into the street like a servant." "O Madame! Madame! The situation is painful enough, let us not embitter it by words. In working out his _modus vivendi_, Monsieur Jenkins parts from you, but he does it with death in his heart, and the propositions I am instructed to make to you are a sufficient proof of his feeling for you. In the first place, as to furniture and clothes, I am authorized to allow you to take--" "Enough," said she. She rushed to the bell: "I am going out. My hat, my cloak at once,--something, no matter what. I am in a hurry." And while her servant went to bring what she required, she added: "Everything here belongs to Monsieur Jenkins. Let him dispose of it as he will. I will take nothing from him--do not insist--it is useless." The man did not insist. His errand being performed, the rest was of little consequence to him. Coolly, without excitement, she carefully adjusted her hat in front of the mirror, the servant attaching the veil and arranging the folds of the cape over her shoulders; then she looked around for a moment to see if she had forgotten anything that was of value to her. No, nothing; her son's letters were in her pocket; she never parted from them. "Does Madame wish the carriage?" "No." And she left the house.