On the fly-leaf was written:
"From Victor to Lulie, September 13th, 18-." Presently she came back to
him quite recovered and calm, inquired how the Avocat was cared for,
and hoped he would have every comfort and care. Medallion grew on the
instant bold. He was now certain that Victor was the Avocat, and Lulie
was Madame Lecyr. He said abruptly to her: "Why not come and cheer him
up--such old friends as you are?"

At that she rose with a little cry, and stared anxiously at him. He
pointed to the book of songs. "Don't be angry--I looked," he said.

She breathed quick and hard, and said nothing, but her fingers laced and
interlaced nervously in her lap. "If you were friends why don't you go
to him?" he said.

She shook her head mournfully. "We were more than friends, and that is
different."

"You were his wife?" said Medallion gently.

"It was different," she replied, flushing. "France is not the same as
here. We were to be married, but on the eve of our wedding-day there was
an end to it all. Only five years ago I found out he was here."

Then she became silent, and would, or could, speak no more; only, she
said at last before he went: "You will not tell him, or any one?"

She need not have asked Medallion. He knew many secrets and kept them;
which is not the usual way of good-humoured people.

But now, with the story told by the Avocat himself in his mind, he saw
the end of the long romance. He came once more to the house of Madame
Lecyr, and being admitted, said to her: "You must come at once with me."

She trembled towards him. "He is worse--he is dying!"

He smiled. "Not dying at all. He needs you; come along. I'll tell you as
we go."

But she hung back. Then he told her all he had seen and heard the
evening before. Without a word further she prepared to go. On the way he
turned to her and said: "You are Madame Lecyr?"

"I am as he left me," she replied timidly, but with a kind of pride,
too.

"Don't mistake me," he said. "I thought perhaps you had been married
since."

The Avocat sat in his little office, feebly fumbling among his papers,
as Medallion entered on him and called to him cheerily: "We are coming
to see you to-night, Garon--the Cure, our Little Chemist, and the
Seigneur; coming to supper."

The Avocat put out his hand courteously; but he said in a shrinking,
pained voice: "No, no, not to-night, Medallion. I would wish no visitors
this night--of all."

Medallion stooped over him, and