he fear of exposing you to the hazards
and adventures of the new life he is undertaking, of taking you
away from a son you cherish, and in whose interest perhaps you had
better----"

She heard no more, saw no more, and while he was spinning out his
gossamer phrases, given over to despair, she heard the song over and
over in her mind, as the last image seen pursues a drowning man:

Le temps nous enleve
Notre enchantement.

All at once her pride returned. "Let us put a stop to this, sir. All
your turns and phrases are only an additional insult. The fact is that I
am driven out--turned into the street like a servant."

"Oh, madame, madame! The situation is cruel enough, don't let us make it
worse by hard words. In the evolution of his _modus vivendi_ M. Jenkins
has to separate from you, but he does so with the greatest pain to
himself; and the proposals which I am charged to make are a proof of his
sentiments for you. First, as to furniture and clothes, I am authorized
to let you take--"

"That will do," said she. She flew to the bell. "I am going out.
Quick--my hat, my mantle, anything, never mind what. I am in a hurry."

And while they went to fetch her what she wanted she said:

"Everything here belongs to M. Jenkins. Let him dispose of it as he
likes. I want nothing from him. Don't insist; it is useless."

The man did not insist. His mission fulfilled, the rest mattered little
to him.

Steadily, coldly, she arranged her hat carefully before the glass, the
maid fastening her veil, and arranging on her shoulders the folds of her
mantle, then she looked round her and considered for a moment whether
she was forgetting anything precious to her. No, nothing--her son's
letters were in her pocket, she never allowed them to be away from her.

"Madame does not wish for the carriage?"

"No." And she left the house.

It was about five o'clock. At that moment Bernard Jansoulet was crossing
the doorway of the legislative chamber, his mother on his arm; but
poignant as was the drama enacted there, this one surpassed it--more
sudden, unforeseen, and without any stage effects. A drama between four
walls, improvised in Paris day by day. Perhaps it is this which gives
that vibration to the air of the city, that tremor which forces the
nerves into activity. The weather was magnificent. The streets of the
wealthy quarter, large and straight as avenues, shone in the declining
light, embellished with open windows, fl