Trianon and pointed out the bed of the Empress
Josephine he nearly broke down.

"What is the Empress doing now?"

What was Fleurette doing now? Going to join the Empress in the world of
shadows.

The tourists talked after the manner of their kind.

"She must have found the bed very hard, poor dear."

"Give me an iron bedstead and a good old spring mattress."

"Ah, but, my dear sir, you forget. The Empress's bed was slung on the
back of tame panthers which Napoleon brought from Egypt."

It was hard to jest convincingly to the knickerbockered with death in
one's soul.

"Most beloved little Flower," ran the last letter that Fleurette
received, "I have just had a cable from Aristide saying that you are
very ill. I will come to you as soon as I can. _Ces petits yeux de
pervenche_--I am learning your language here, you see--haunt me day and
night ..." etcetera, etcetera.

Aristide went up to her room with a great bunch of chrysanthemums. The
letter peeped from under the pillow. Fleurette was very weak. Mme.
Bidoux, who, during Fleurette's illness, had allowed her green grocery
business to be personally conducted to the deuce by a youth of sixteen
very much in love with the lady who sold sausages and other
_charcuterie_ next door, had spread out the fortune-telling cards on
the bed and was prophesying mendaciously. Fleurette took the flowers
and clasped them to her bosom.

"No letter for _ce cher Reginald_?"

She shook her head. "I can write no more," she whispered.

She closed her eyes. Presently she said, in a low voice:--

"Aristide--if you kiss me, I think I can go to sleep."

He bent down to kiss her forehead. A fragile arm twined itself about his
neck and he kissed her on the lips.

"She is sleeping," said Mme. Bidoux, after a while.

Aristide tiptoed out of the room.

And so died Fleurette. Aristide borrowed money from the kind-hearted
Bocardon for a beautiful funeral, and Mme. Bidoux and Bocardon and a few
neighbours and himself saw her laid to rest. When they got back to the
Rue Saint Honore he told Mme. Bidoux about the letters. She wept and
clasped him, weeping too, in her kind, fat old arms.

The next evening Aristide, coming back from his day's work at the Hotel
du Soleil et de l'Ecosse, was confronted in the shop by Mme. Bidoux,
hands on broad hips.

"_Tiens, mon petit_," she said, without preliminary greeting. "You are
an angel. I knew it. But that a man's an angel is no reason for his