“But wait--wait till you’ve heard the end. One would think I had had enough--not so? One would think my cup of bitterness was full. No fear! There was a stronger cup still a-brewing for me. When Fortune takes a grudge against a man, she never lets up. She exacts the uttermost farthing. I was pretty badly off, but I had one treasure left--I had Godelinette. I used to think that she was my compensation. I would say to myself, ‘A fellow can’t have all blessings. How can you expect others, when you’ve got her?’ And I would accuse myself of ingratitude for complaining of my unsuccess. Then she fell ill. My God, how I watched over, prayed over her! It seemed impossible--I could not believe--that she would be taken from me. Yet, Harry, do you know what that poor child was thinking? Do you know what her dying thoughts were--her wishes? Throughout her long painful illness she was thinking that she was an obstacle in my way, a weight upon me; that if it weren’t for her, I should get on, have friends, a position; that it would be a good thing for me if she should die; and she was hoping in her poor little heart that she wouldn’t get well! Oh, I know it, I knew it--and you see me here alive. She let herself die for my sake--as if I could care for anything without her! That’s what brought us here, to France, to Bordeaux--her illness. The doctors said she must pass the spring out of England, away from the March winds, in the South; and I begged and borrowed money enough to take her. And we were on our way to Arcachon; but when we reached Bordeaux she was too ill to continue the journey, and--she died here.” We walked on for some distance in silence, then he added: “That was four years ago. You wonder why I live to tell you of it, why I haven’t cut my throat. I don’t know whether it’s cowardice or conscientious scruples. It seems rather inconsequent to say that I believe in a God, doesn’t it?--that I believe one’s life is not one’s own to make an end of? Anyhow, here I am, keeping body and soul together as musician to a _brasserie-à-femmes_. I can’t go back to England, I can’t leave Bordeaux--she’s buried here. I’ve hunted high and low for work, and found it nowhere save in the _brasserie-à-femmes_. With that, and a little copying now and then, I manage to pay my way.” “But your uncle?” I asked. “Do you think I would touch a penny of his money?” Pair retorted, almost fiercely. “It was he who began it. My wife let herself die. It was virtual suicide. It was he who created the situation that drove her to it.” “You are his heir, though, aren’t you?” “No, the estates are not entailed.” We had arrived at the door of my hotel. “Well, good-night and _bon voyage_,” he said. “You needn’t wish me _bon voyage_,” I answered. “Of course I’m not leaving Bordeaux for the present.” “Oh, yes, you are. You’re going on to Biarritz to-morrow morning, as you intended.”