At last, one evening, she found a letter from Rosalie awaiting her with
two hundred francs enclosed.

"Come back as soon as possible, Madame Jeanne," wrote the maid,
"for I shall send you nothing more. As for M. Paul, I will go and
fetch him myself the next time we hear anything from him.--With
best respects, your servant,

ROSALIE."

And Jeanne started back to Batteville one bitterly cold, snowy morning.

* * * * *

XIV

After her return from Paris, Jeanne would not go out or take any
interest in anything. She rose at the same hour every morning, looked
out of the window to see what sort of day it was, then went downstairs
and sat before the fire in the dining-room. She stayed there the whole
day, sitting perfectly still with her eyes fixed on the flames while
she thought of all the sorrows she had passed through. The little room
grew darker and darker, but she never moved, except to put more wood on
the fire, and when Rosalie brought in the lamp she cried:

"Come, Madame Jeanne, you must stir about a bit, or you won't be able to
eat any dinner again this evening."

Often she was worried by thoughts which she could not dismiss from her
mind, and she allowed herself to be tormented by the veriest trifles,
for the most insignificant matters appeared of the greatest importance
to her diseased mind. She lived in the memories of the past, and she
would think for hours together of her girlhood and her wedding tour in
Corsica. The wild scenery that she had long forgotten suddenly appeared
before her in the fire, and she could recall every detail, every event,
every face connected with the island. She could always see the features
of Jean Ravoli, the guide, and sometimes she fancied she could even hear
his voice.

At other times she thought of the peaceful years of Paul's childhood--of
how he used to make her tend the salad plants, and of how she and Aunt
Lison used to kneel on the ground, each trying to outdo the other in
giving pleasure to the boy, and in rearing the greater number of plants.

Her lips would form the words, "Poulet, my little Poulet," as if she
were talking to him, and she would cease to muse, and try for hours to
write in the air the letters which formed her son's name, with her
outstretched finger. Slowly she traced them before the fire, fancying
she could see them, and, thinking she had