It was a torture to her generous soul that she could not grieve for him.  She could only shudder at the tragedy.  In her heart she grieved more for Anastasius Papadopoulos, and in so doing she was, in her feminine way, self-accusative of callous lack of human feeling.  It was my attempt to bring her to a more rational state of mind that caused us to review the dead man’s career, and recapitulate the unpleasing incidents of the last interview.

Of Captain Vauvenarde, no more.  He has gone whither I am going.  That his soul may rest in peace is my earnest prayer.  But I do not wish to meet him.

Lola went tearless and strong through the horrible ordeal of the judicial proceedings.  She said I gave her courage.  Perhaps, unconsciously, I did.  It was only when the end came that she broke down, although she knew exactly what the end would be.  And I, too, felt a lump in my throat when they sentenced Anastasius Papadopoulos to the asylum, and I saw him for the last time, the living parody of Napoleon III, frock-coated and yellow-gloved, the precious, newly written dossier in his hand, as he disappeared with a mournful smile from the court, after bowing low to the judge and to us, without having understood the significance of anything that had happened.

In the carriage that took us home she wept and sobbed bitterly.

“I loved him so.  He was the only creature on earth that loved me.  He loved me as only a dog can love—­or an angel.”

I let her cry.  What could I say or do?

These have been weeks of tedious horror and pain.  With the exception of Colonel Bunnion, I have kept myself aloof from my fellow creatures in the hotel, even taking my meals in my own rooms, not wishing to be stared at as the hero of the scandal that convulsed the place.  And with regard to Colonel Bunnion shall I be accused of cynicism if I say that I admitted him—­not to my confidence—­but to my company, because I know that it delighted the honest but boring fellow to prove to himself that he could rise above British prejudice and exhibit tact in dealing with a man in a delicate position?  For, mark you, all the world—­even those nearest and dearest to me as I soon discovered—­believed that the wife of the man who was murdered before my eyes was my mistress.  Colonel Bunnion was kind, and he meant to be kind.  He was a gentleman for all his wearisomeness, and his kindness was such as I could accept.  But I know what I say about him is true.  Ye gods!  Haven’t I felt myself the same swelling pride in my broadmindedness?  When a man is going on my journey he does not palter with truth.

Though I held myself aloof, as I say, from practically all my fellow creatures here, I have not been cut off from the outside world.  My sisters, like this French court in Algiers, have accepted my statement with polite incredulity.  Their letters have been full of love, half-veiled reproach, anxiety as to their social position, and an insane desire to come and take care of me.  This I have forbidden them to do.  The pain they would have inflicted on themselves, dear souls, would have far outweighed the comfort I might have gained from their ministrations.  Then I have had piteous letters from Dale.