crowd to
her bargain which she struggled out with, red and perspiring, to the
mud-smeared lawn, where her eldest daughter shrewdly examined the
bedquilt for holes.

I turned away when it was all over and followed the crowd out through
the gates. Le Gros was climbing into his cart. He was drunk and swearing
over the poor result of the sale. De Savignac was still in his debt--and
I continued on my way home, feeling as if I had attended an execution.

Half an hour later the sharp bark of my yellow puppy greeted me from
beyond my wall. As I entered my courtyard, he came to me wriggling with
joy. Suddenly I stopped, for my ear caught the sound of a tail gently
patting the straw in the cavernous old stable beyond my spaniel's
kennel. I looked in and saw a pair of eyes gleaming like opals in the
gloom. Then the tawny body of Mirza, the mother, rose from the straw and
came slowly and apologetically toward me with her head lowered.

"Suzette!" I called, "how did she get here?"

"The boy of Monsieur de Savignac brought her an hour ago, monsieur,"
answered the little maid. "There is a note for monsieur. I have left it
on the table."

I went in, lighted the fire, and read the following:

"THE GARCONNIERE, _Saturday_.

"Take her, my friend. I can no longer keep her with me. You
have the son, it is only right you should have the mother.
We leave for Paris to-morrow. We shall meet there soon, I
trust. If you come here, do not bring her with you. I said
good-bye to her this morning.

"Jacques de Savignac."

It was all clear to me now--pitifully clear--the garconniere had gone
with the rest.

* * * * *

On one of my flying trips to Paris I looked them up in their refuge, in
a slit of a street. Here they had managed to live by the strictest
economy, in a plain little nest under the roof, composed of two rooms
and a closet for a kitchen.

One night, early in June, after some persuasion, I forced him to go with
me to one of those sparkling _risquee_ little comedies at the Palais
Royal which he loved, and so on to supper at the Cafe de la Paix, where
that great gipsy, Boldi, warms the heart with his fiddle.

The opera was just out, when we reached our table, close to the band.
Beauty and the Beast were arriving, and wraps of sheen and lace were
being slipped from fair shoulders into the fat waiting hands of the
garcons, while the busy maitr