He covered his eyes again as if the memory were intolerable.  But after awhile he said: 

“You saved my life, you know.”

And the girl answered him: 

“I had nearly taken it once before.  It was I who called Michel that day you came over the wall, the day you were shot.  I nearly murdered you once.  I owed you something.  Perhaps we’re even now.”

She saw that he did not at all remember that hour in the little room—­her hour of bitterness—­and she was glad.  She had felt sure that it would be so.  For the present she did not greatly suffer, she had come to a state beyond active suffering—­a chill state of dulled sensibilities.

The old Justine knocked at the door to ask if Monsieur was going into the city soon or if she should give the chauffeur his dejeuner and tell him to wait.

“Are you fit to go?” Coira asked.

And he said, “I suppose as fit as I shall be.”

He got to his feet, and the things about him swam dangerously, but he could walk by using great care.  The girl stood white and still, and she avoided his eyes.

“It is not good-bye,” said he.  “I shall see you soon again—­and I hope, often—­often, Coira.”

The words had a flat and foolish sound, but he could find no others.  It was not easy to speak.

“I suppose I must not ask to see your father?” said he.

And she told him that her father had locked himself in his own room and would see no one—­would not even open his door to take in food.

Ste. Marie went to the stairs leaning upon the shoulder of the stout old Justine, but before he had gone Coira checked him for an instant.  She said: 

“Tell Arthur, if he speaks to you about me, that what I said in the note I gave him last night I meant quite seriously.  I gave him a note to read after he reached home.  Tell him for me that it was final.  Will you do that?”

“Yes, of course,” said Ste. Marie.

He looked at her with some wonder, because her words had been very emphatic.

“Yes,” he said, “I will tell him.  Is that all?”

“All but good-bye,” said she.  “Good-bye, Bayard!”

She stood at the head of the stairs while he went down them.  And she came after him to the landing, half-way, where the stairs turned in the opposite direction for their lower flight.  When he went out of the front door he looked back, and she was standing there above him, a straight, still figure, dark against the light of the windows behind her.

He went straight to the rue d’Assas.  He found that while he sat still in the comfortable tonneau of the motor his head was fairly normal, and the world did not swing and whirl about in that sickening fashion.  But when the car lurched or bumped over an obstruction it made him giddy, and he would have fallen had he been standing.