is necessities brought him
into contact with the Walloon language, in which--or something very like
it--Froissart wrote his chronicles. He picked up nuggets in the way
of character--clean gold--and whether he were wandering with his own
thoughts or struggling through the medium of this new tongue towards
a knowledge of rustic Belgian life, or pruning and digging about his
imaginations in his workshop, he was happy as a man need be.

Annette and he saw less and less of each other, but that was a
circumstance to which he resigned himself with ease. They had taken two
rooms at the corner of their corridor to begin with, a large room and a
smaller one, and there was no need to move from their original quarters.
The smaller chamber was used as a dressing-room. Paul's circular tub
was there, and the trunks with which the pair travelled, and coats and
dresses were hung about the walls. But it was Annette's whim one day in
Paul's absence to have a bed set up in this second apartment, and that
same night, rising late from work, he found himself locked from his
wife's room. He had not been consulted as to this arrangement, and it
struck a little cold upon him, but thinking that he would talk it over
in the morning, he betook himself to sleep. Next day Annette complained
of headache, and the pallor of her face and the heaviness of her eyes
were a sufficing certificate to suffering.

'I was very, very ill last night,' she said pleadingly, 'and I wanted to
be alone. Oh! I can't tell you how much I wanted to be alone.'

Paul took her hand in his, and smoothed it between his own. The skin was
harsh and dry, and the little hand felt almost like a hot coal.

'My dear,' he said anxiously, 'you are quite in a high fever. I shall
run away for Laurent instantly.'

'Why will you pester me?' she asked, with a weary little spurt of
temper. 'I have no more need for a doctor than you have. I understand my
own condition perfectly, and I want to go to sleep.'

'But, my dear,' said Paul, 'these symptoms seem to be increasing, and
you really ought to have advice. Laurent is an able man; you can trust
him, I am sure.'

'Oh! she cried, 'your voice rasps me in the very middle of my brain. 'Go
away and let me sleep, for pity's sake.'

'Let me make you a cup of tea,' he said, subduing his voice to a
whisper. 'I have a whole packet of that lovely stuff I bought before we
left London.'

'Pray go,' she answered him.

There was nothing for it but