elpless. Her eyes were
bandaged, and she was dependent on the sister of mercy and Mme Giras for
everything.

"Crau is in prison," said he. "I've given formal evidence against him,
and he is remanded for trial a month hence. When you are well again,
they will take your evidence on commission. He will undoubtedly be
sentenced to hard labour for some years."

"What does it matter to me--now?" There was despair in her voice.

"The doctor is very hopeful for you, if you will put yourself under
Hegelmann's care."

"He can do nothing for me, I feel it. Only useless expense. No man can
give me back the sight I want for my work."

"In time," said Riviere gently, but he could not force conviction into
his voice. It went hard with him to lie to the woman he cared for most
in the world, even to bring temporary comfort to her.

"My work. Barreze and the Odeon," she murmured slowly, speaking to
herself rather than to him. "My work was my life. I remember your saying
to me in the garden, by the arbour, only a few days ago: 'If Fate were
to deny you your freedom!' I shivered even at the words.... Do you
believe in Fate?"

Riviere's fist was clenched as he answered: "I'll fight Fate for both of
us."

She was silent for a few moments. Then she asked: "Will you write a
letter for me?"

He brought pen and ink, and waited for her dictation.

"My dear Barreze," she dictated slowly, "you must find someone else to
paint your scenes of Provence. I am blinded for life----"

"Don't ask me to write that!"

"I am blinded for life," she continued with the clear tones of one whose
mental vision sees the future unveiled. "They want me to go to Hegelmann
at Wiesbaden. He is a great man, and will do for me all that surgical
skill can do. There will be an operation--several, perhaps. It may
perhaps give me a faint gleam of light--enough to tell light from
darkness and to realize more keenly all that I have lost. I shall never
see the theatre again--never paint again. I shall live on the memories
of the past and the bitter thoughts of what might have been----"

"I can't write it!" he cried, torn with the pathos of the words she bade
him put to paper.

"----of what might have been. My friends of the theatre must pass out of
my life. They can have no use for a crippled, helpless woman, nor do I
wish to cloud their happiness with my unwanted presence. Say good-bye to
them for me. And you, my dear Barreze, I would thank for the chance you
g