er to remain in the town, where you
will find it easier to get something to do." As we walked on she told
me she was married to a gardener in the neighbourhood, and that she
didn't intend to give herself any particular trouble over me. We got
to the railway station. She took me on to the platform because she
wanted me to help her carry some parcels. She said "good-bye" when her
train went off, and I remained there and watched it go. Almost
immediately another train stopped. The railway men ran up and down the
platform calling to the passengers for Paris to cross over. In that
one moment I saw Paris with its great houses like palaces, with roofs
so high that they were lost in the clouds. A young man bumped into me.
He stopped and said, "Are you going to Paris, mademoiselle?" I
scarcely hesitated, and said, "Yes; but I have no ticket." He held out
his hand. "Give me the money," he said, "and I will go and get it for
you." I gave him one of my two gold coins, and he ran off. I put the
ticket and the change in copper which he had brought me into my pocket,
went across the line with him, and climbed into the train.

The young man stood at the carriage door for a minute, and went off,
turning back once as he went. His eyes were full of gentleness, like
those of Henri Deslois.

The train whistled once, as though to warn me, and as it moved off it
whistled a second time, a long whistle like a scream.

THE END

AFTERWORD

And now may I tell you what I know about Marguerite Audoux, the author
of the book you have just read? I know very little more of her than
you do, for you have read the book, and Marguerite Audoux is Marie
Claire. If Marie Claire in English does not please you, the fault is
mine. I have tried hard to translate into English the uneducated,
unspoilt purity of language, the purity of thought which are the
characteristics of the French; but the task was no easy one, much as I
loved it in the doing.

Marguerite Audoux herself is a plump and placid little woman, of about
thirty-five. She lives in a sixth-floor garret in the Rue Leopold
Robert, in Paris. From her window she has a view of roof-tops and the
Montparnasse cemetery. When she learned of the success of her book,
with which she had lived for six years, she cried. "I felt dreadfully
frightened at first," she said, "I felt very uneasy. I felt as though
I had become known too quickly, as though I were a criminal of note