had wanted as a beautiful dream, and behold, it had turned into a painful, somber reality. Tomorrow morning I will send him a letter telling him I am still alive, and he will fly to me and take my small head between his strong hands, and look at me with those looks by which he captivated me, with whisperings the heart confides in its own tongue, and let me hear the sweetest of songs, the chastest and the noblest, which youth plays with a mad playing, echoed by the winds and the whirlwinds, till the world dances for us, and the flowers dance, and the sparrows dance.

I wrote to Jean; he did not answer, and he did not come. So I raged against the death that had spat me out, and cursed the life that had reclaimed me. When my days of convalescence ended and the administration informed me that I might now leave the hospital, I went out to the first post office and wrote two letters, one to my mother and the other to Jean. In the first I wanted to say to my mother the things no daughter can help confiding to her mother; and in the second I still had some hope, and I would invent excuses out of whole cloth to justify him before myself, telling myself: perhaps he is ill, or perhaps my letter did not reach him, or perhaps he is even now searching for me in the east of the earth and its west—he cannot possibly have forgotten me. Did he not tell me he would rather die than live far from me? Yes, he told me so, and affirmed it a thousand times.

I sent my word by express post and waited for the answer the whole day long, but it passed without the answer arriving. So I rose, my soul in despair, and went to the first watchmaker's and sold him a watch my mother had given me the day I obtained my certificate in philosophy, and a ring which she too had presented to me, the day I

obtained my baccalaureate. I made for the station, took a second-class place, and sat wait-ing for the night train.

When the train arrived I climbed into the carriage, took a seat, and sank into my musings, coming to myself only at the voice of the conductor announcing our arrival in Paris. I got off not knowing which way to turn, but I walked down the first street in front of me, and read, on a door lit by a lamp, "Hôtel Terminus." I touched the electric button with a twitching finger; the bell whined, and the door opened, and no sooner had I stepped inside than a voice with the note of command in it stopped me: —You want? —To pass the rest of my night. —Have you any luggage? —No. —Thirty francs, paid in advance. —Have you no room less luxurious? —We

have none but this: either you pay and go in, or you go away. —I want to sleep. —Come in, then.

I paid her the thirty francs. —Room 28, third floor, on the right. —Bonsoir. And she shut the door. I climbed the stairs feeling my way, for it seemed to me the lights were faint and gave no light. I do not remember whether I took off my clothes or not, but I do remember that the voice that had received me at the door was the one that woke me in the morning.

—I want to know whether you are keeping your room this evening; if so, pay another thirty francs; if not, kindly go.

I went out and walked. Where to? I do not know. I went from street to street until walking wore me out. I bought a newspaper and

went to a park to read through its advertisements in hopes of finding work, and found none. And so I stayed a week hunting for work, and no work; the few francs I had with me ran out, and I passed the first day of my life without food, and the second, and this is the third.

This is something of my story. As for my true story, it lies buried here in my breast; I shall not tell it to any man, for among men there is none fit to hear it. Forgive me—I have run on in my talk, so pardon my chatter; and now, to work.

Then she rose to her feet and took her first pose, and each of us went back to his colors, trying to fathom this grievous secret and to picture it after his own fashion...