the screen. Upon a pile of mattresses heaped on the floor lay the
poet. He had raised himself a little on his pillows, amid which showed
a longish, pointed, white face with high cheek-bones, a Grecian nose,
and a large pale mouth, wasted from the sensualism she recollected in
it to a strange Christ-like beauty. The outlines of the shrivelled
body beneath the sheet seemed those of a child of ten, and the legs
looked curiously twisted. One thin little hand, as of transparent wax,
delicately artistic, upheld a paralyzed eyelid, through which he
peered at her.

"Lucy _Liebchen_!" he piped joyously. "So you have found out who
Heinrich Heine is!"

He used the familiar German "_du_"; for him she was still his little
friend. But to her the moment was too poignant for speech. The
terrible passages in the last writings of this greatest of
autobiographers, which she had hoped poetically colored, were then
painfully, prosaically true.

"Can it be that I still actually exist? My body is so shrunk that
there is hardly anything left of me but my voice, and my bed makes me
think of the melodious grave of the enchanter Merlin, which is in the
forest of Broceliand in Brittany, under high oaks whose tops shine
like green flames to heaven. Oh, I envy thee those trees, brother
Merlin, and their fresh waving. For over my mattress grave here in
Paris no green leaves rustle, and early and late I hear nothing but
the rattle of carriages, hammering, scolding, and the jingle of
pianos. A grave without rest, death without the privileges of the
departed, who have no longer any need to spend money, or to write
letters, or to compose books...."

And then she thought of that ghastly comparison of himself to the
ancient German singer--the poor clerk of the Chronicle of
Limburg--whose sweet songs were sung and whistled from morning to
night all through Germany; while the _Minnesinger_ himself, smitten
with leprosy, hooded and cloaked, and carrying the lazarus-clapper,
moved through the shuddering city. God's satire weighed heavily upon
him, indeed. Silently she held out her hand, and he gave her his
bloodless fingers; she touched the strangely satin skin, and felt the
fever beneath.

"It cannot be my little Lucy," he said reproachfully. "She used to
kiss me. But even Lucy's kiss cannot thrill my paralyzed lips."

She stooped and kissed his lips. His little beard felt soft and weak
as the hair of a baby.

"Ah, I have made my peace with the wo