She went to her own room and spent half an hour in collecting every
valuable she owned. They were not many; she had always been recklessly
improvident. She put together in a package her few jewels, and even
the laces she considered worth the most. Then she went out, and,
taking a _fiacre_ at the nearest corner, drove away.

She was absent two hours, and when she returned she stopped at the
entrance, intending to ask the _concierge_ a question. But the man
himself spoke first. He was evidently greatly disturbed and not a
little alarmed.

"Mademoiselle," he began, "the young man on the sixth floor--"

"What of him?" she demanded.

"He desires to see you. He went out in spite of my warnings. Figure to
yourself on such a day, in such a state of health. He returned almost
immediately, wearing the look of Death itself. He sank upon the first
step of the staircase. When I rushed to his assistance he held to his
lips a handkerchief stained with blood! We were compelled to carry him
up-stairs."

She stood a moment, feeling her throat and lips suddenly become dry
and parched.

"And he asked--for me?" she said at last.

"When he would speak, Mademoiselle--yes. We do not know why. He said,
in a very faint voice, 'She said she would come.'"

She went up the staircase slowly and mechanically, as one who moves
in a dream. And yet when she reached the door of the studio she was
obliged to wait for a few seconds before opening it. When she did
open it she saw the attic seemed even more cold and bare than usual;
that there was no fire; that the American lay upon the bed, his
eyes closed, the hectic spots faded from his cheeks. But when she
approached and stood near him, he opened his eyes and looked at her
with a faint smile.

"If--I play you--the poor trick of--dying," he said, "you will
remember--that the picture--if you care for it--is yours."

After a while, the doctor, who had been sent for, arrived. Perhaps he
had been in no great hurry when he had heard that his services were
required by an artist who lay in a garret in the Latin Quarter. His
visit was a short one. He asked a few questions, wrote a prescription,
and went away. He looked at Natalie oftener than at the sick man. She
followed him out on to the landing, and then he regarded her with
greater interest than before.

"He is very ill?" she said.

"Yes," he answered. "He will die, of course, sooner or later."

"You speak calmly, Monsieur," she said.

"S