longer; she was quite well
and strong again, and she knew that Jean was getting well, and--and she
had seen Jean and his work, and she could picture his splendid life
stretching out before him in which even his marriage with Mademoiselle
Bliss, who was very rich and of the _grand monde_, would help to make
him even greater, and--and so there remained nothing more to hold her
there. It was very wonderful that it should be her lips that Jean had
fashioned--unconsciously, as Father Anton said--into his clay. It was
very wonderful! It was something that the _bon Dieu_ had given her to
make her glad; to make the sadness and remorse for the tragedy she had
brought about less terrible; to make her know that, after all, her
share in Jean's career had not just ended with that day, so long ago in
Bernay-sur-Mer, when she had given him to France.

She tied the bundle neatly. She was ready to go now, and she picked it
up, took a step toward the door--and, holding the bundle in her hand,
paused hesitantly. She could not go like that--Father Anton would be
in a state of frenzy over her. She--she could write him a little note.
Yes; she would do that. She set the bundle down, and hurriedly untied
it. She remembered that when she had written down Father Anton's
address before leaving Bernay-sur-Mer she had put the pencil in the
pocket of her apron. Yes; here it was, but--she looked around her in
sudden anxiety--there was nothing, no paper to write on. Her eyes
rested upon the bed. Madame Garneau's cream-puffs! She picked up the
bag, tore a piece from it, and, taking it to the window sill, wrote a
few hurried sentences. It was just to say that she could never go to
Bernay-sur-Mer; just to say that she was going away, very far away
somewhere, and that he must not be sad about her, or try to find her
for she did not know where she was going herself; just to say that she
loved him, and that he had been so good, so very, very good to her, and
that she would pray always to the _bon Dieu_ for him.

There was a mist in her eyes as she folded the yellow, grease-spotted
paper--she could buy an envelope and a stamp and mail it to Father
Anton. She took up her bundle again, and went to the door; and, making
sure that Madame Garneau was not in sight, hurried out of the house to
the street. Here, she ran until she had turned the first corner and
could no longer be seen from the house, then walked quietly along.

Blocks away, she ste