me a letter with the postmark of Saint-Germain. I opened
it, instinctively guessing the contents. The Chief Ranger also had no
knowledge of Madame Deloche. Moreover he had neither wife nor child.

This was the last blow. Thus for five years each of her words had been
a lie. A thousand jealous thoughts took possession of me, and madly,
hardly knowing what I was about, I entered the room in which she was
dying. All the questions that were torturing me burst forth over that
bed of suffering: "Why did you go to Saint-Germain on Sundays? Where did
you spend your days? Where did you spend that night? Come, answer
me." And I bent over her, seeking in the depths of her still proud and
beautiful eyes answers that I awaited with anguish; but she remained
mute and impassive.

I resumed, trembling with rage: "You never gave any lessons. I have been
everywhere. Nobody knows you. Whence came that money, those laces, those
jewels?" She threw me a glance full of despairing sadness, and that was
all. In truth, I ought to have spared her, and allowed her to die in
peace. But I had loved her too well. My jealousy was stronger than my
pity. I continued: "For five years you have deceived me, lying to me
every day, every hour. You knew my whole life, and I knew nothing of
yours. Nothing, not even your name. For it is not yours, is it, the name
you bear? Ah liar! liar! What, she is going to die, and I do not even
know by what name to call her! Come, tell me who you are? Whence come
you? Why did you intrude into my life? Speak! Tell me something!"

Vain efforts! Instead of answering, she with difficulty turned her face
to the wall, as though she feared that her last glance might betray her
secret. And thus the unhappy creature died! Died without a word, liar to
the last.

[Illustration: p191-202]

[Illustration: p195-206]

THE COMTESSE IRMA.

"_M. Charles d'Athis, literary man, has the honour to inform you of the
birth of his son Robert._

"_The child is doing well._"

Some dozen years ago, all literary and artistic Paris received this
little note on the glossiest of paper, embossed with the arms of the
Counts of d'Athis-Mons, of whom the last Charles d'Athis had--while
still young--succeeded in making for himself a genuine reputation as a
poet.

"The child is doing well." And the mother? Of her there was no mention
in the note. Every one knew her but too well. She was the daughter of an
old poacher of Seine et Oise; a quon