airing
of attaining his end, for he desired it still, more than ever, prey to
the exasperated love of a man of forty-seven to one of those incurable
passions of maturity; and that was this hypocrite's punishment. This
unusual condition of his daughter was a real grief to the sculptor; but
this grief was of short duration. Without warning, Ruys flickered out of
life, fell to pieces in a moment, as was the way with all the Irishman's
patients. His last words were:

"Jenkins, I beg you to look after my daughter."

They were so ironically mournful that Jenkins could not prevent himself
from turning pale.

Felicia was even more stupefied than grief-stricken. To the amazement
caused by death, which she had never seen and which now came before her
wearing features so dear, there was joined the sense of a vast solitude
surrounded by darkness and perils.

A few of the sculptor's friends gathered together as a family council
to consider the future of this unfortunate child without relatives or
fortune. Fifty francs had been discovered in the box where Sebastien
used to put his money, on a piece of the studio furniture well known to
its needy frequenters and visited by them without scruple. There was
no other inheritance, at least in cash; only a quantity of artistic
and curious furniture of the most sumptuous description, a few valuable
pictures, and a certain amount of money owing but scarcely sufficing
to cover numberless debts. It was proposed to organize a sale. Felicia,
when she was consulted, replied that she would not care if everything
were sold, but, for God's sake, let them leave her in peace.

The sale did not take place, however, thanks to the godmother, the
excellent Crenmitz, who suddenly made her appearance, calm and gentle as
usual.

"Don't listen to them, my child. Sell nothing. Your old Constance has
an income of fifteen thousand francs, which was destined to come to you
later on. You will take advantage of it at once, that is all. We will
live here together. You will see, I shall not be in the way. You will
work at your sculpture, I shall manage the house. Does that suit you?"

It was said so tenderly, with that childishness of accent which
foreigners have when expressing themselves in French, that the girl
was deeply moved. Her heart that had seemed turned to stone opened, a
burning flood came pouring from her eyes, and she rushed, flung herself
into the arms of the dancer. "Ah, godmother, how good you