it is far worse than the anguish of death.  You have written me letters which, if I had written them to you in a like situation, you would have thought very odious.  You expected of me that which it was out of my power to do.  But you are the only person to whom I shall try to justify myself.  In spite of your severity, and though from being a friend you became a creditor on the day when Bordin asked for my note on your behalf (thus abrogating the generous compact you had made with me there, on that spot, when we clasped hands and mingled our tears),—­well, in spite of all that, I have remembered that day, and because of it I have come here to say to you, You do not know misery, therefore do not judge it.  I have not had one moment when I could answer you.  Would you have wished me to come here and cajole you with words?  I could not pay you; I did not even have enough for the bare necessities of those whose lives depended on me.  My play brought little.  A novice in theatrical ways, I became a prey to musicians, actors, journalists, orchestras.  To get the means to leave Paris and join my family, and carry to them the few things they need, I have sold “Les Peruviens” outright to the director, with two other pieces which I had in my portfolio.  I start for Holland without a sou; I must reach Flushing as best I can; my voyage is paid, that is all.  Were it not for the pity of my landlady, who has confidence in me, I should have to travel on foot, with my bag upon my back.  But, in spite of your doubts of me, I, remembering that without you I never could have sent my wife and father-in-law to New York, am forever grateful to you.  No, Monsieur Alain, I shall not forget that the hundred louis d’or you lent me would have yielded you to-day fifteen hundred francs a year.’  ‘I desire to believe you, Mongenod,’ I said, shaken by the tone in which he made this explanation.  ’Ah, you no longer say monsieur to me!’ he said quickly, with a tender glance.  ’My God!  I shall quit France with less regret if I can leave one man behind me in whose eyes I am not half a swindler, nor a spendthrift, nor a man of illusions!  Alain, I have loved an angel in the midst of my misery.  A man who truly loves cannot be despicable.’  At those words I stretched out my hand to him.  He took it and wrung it.  ’May heaven protect you!’ I said.  ‘Are we still friends?’ he asked.  ‘Yes,’ I replied.  ’It shall never be that my childhood’s comrade and the friend of my youth left me for America under the feeling that I was angry with him.’  Mongenod kissed me, with tears in his eyes, and rushed away.”

Monsieur Alain stopped in his narrative for an instant and looked at Godefroid.  “I remember that day with some satisfaction,” he said.  Then he resumed: