A roar of laughter drowned conversation, and Paul groped his way along the passage, still clutching the red berries. He reached the door. Then he reconsidered the matter. He crept back to her bedroom. He placed the berries under the coverlet, and taking a sheet of paper, he wrote one word on it: “Good-by.” He placed this on the berries, and then stole out into the night. Paul was then twenty-two, and his life was finished. He was a crushed and broken man. He wandered the streets of Paris all night. He spent hours grimly watching the encircling waters of the Seine, the friend and comforter of so many broken hearts. At dawn he returned to his own apartment. He slept for several hours, and then woke up in a fever. He was very ill for some weeks. But one must not despair forever. At the end of that time, he pulled himself together, and went out and sought employment. He eventually got a situation as a junior clerk in a wholesale store, and he went back to live at the old _pension_ near the Luxembourg, and he resumed his friendship with Lucile. And in two years’ time he married Lucile. And then his life began. His life began. His life began. And lo! here was Lucile walking slowly up the hill, arm-in-arm with her daughter Louise. Yes, his life began.... * * * * * “Ah! there you are! What did I say?” exclaimed Louise. “He’s been asleep!” “And we’ve had such an interesting time,” added Madame Roget, panting with exertion. “We’ve been to the inn.” “And there’s such a pretty girl there,” continued the daughter. “You’d fall in love with her, papa.” “Is she very dark?” asked Monsieur Roget. “Yes, she has blue-black hair and beautiful dark eyes.” “Good God!” “I knew he would be interested. She gave us some milk, and she has been telling us her story. She’s quite young, and she owns the inn, although it’s very hard work to run it, she says. She only has one woman and a potman. Her mother was a famous actress, who made a lot of money and bought the inn and improved it. She died when Mademoiselle was fifteen.” “Who was her father?” “I don’t know. I rather gather that her father was a bad lot. He died, too.” “How old is she?” “Not much more than twenty.” “Then her mother must have been thirty-nine when she died.” “What makes you say so?” “Of course she must have been. What happened to the old man?” “What old man?” “Her grandfather.” “What are you talking about, papa? I don’t believe you’re quite awake yet.” “She must have had a grandfather. Everybody has a grandfather.” “Well, of course. But—” “Then he must be either dead or alive.” “How tiresome you are! We must be going. The others are waiting for us lower down the hill.” Monsieur Roget struggled to his feet, and shook the little dead fronds of fern from his clothes, and his wife dusted him down behind. “We shall be going back past the inn,” she said. “The inn! Why can’t we go the other way? The way we came?”