“Ne sait quand reviendra,
          Ne sait quand reviendra.”

I rose, opened the door, and slipped out of it, and I must have made a strange, hatless figure as I came upon the fiddler and his children from across the street.

“Stop that noise,” I cried in French, angered beyond all reason at the thought of music at such a time.  “Idiots, there is yellow fever there.”

The little man stopped with his bow raised; for a moment they all stared at me, transfixed.  It was a little elf in blue indienne who jumped first and ran down the street, crying the news in a shrill voice, the others following, the fiddler gazing stupidly after them.  Suddenly he scrambled up, moaning, as if the scourge itself had fastened on him, backed into the house, and slammed the door in my face.  I returned with slow steps to shut myself in the darkened room again, and I recall feeling something of triumph over the consternation I had caused.  No sounds came from the bedroom, and after that the street was quiet as death save for an occasional frightened, hurrying footfall.  I was tired.

All at once the bedroom door opened softly, and Helene was standing there, looking at me.  At first I saw her dimly, as in a vision, then clearly.  I leaped to my feet and went and stood beside her.

“The doctor has not come,” I said.  “Where does he live?  I will go for him.”

She shook her head.

“He can do no good.  Lindy has procured all the remedies, such as they are.  They can only serve to alleviate,” she answered.  “She cannot withstand this, poor lady.”  There were tears on Helene’s lashes.  “Her sufferings have been frightful—­frightful.”

“Cannot I help?” I said thickly.  “Cannot I do something?”

She shook her head.  She raised her hand timidly to the lapel of my coat, and suddenly I felt her palm, cool and firm, upon my forehead.  It rested there but an instant.

“You ought not to be here,” she said, her voice vibrant with earnestness and concern.  “You ought not to be here.  Will you not go—­if I ask it?”

“I cannot,” I said; “you know I cannot if you stay.”

She did not answer that.  Our eyes met, and in that instant for me there was neither joy nor sorrow, sickness nor death, nor time nor space nor universe.  It was she who turned away.

“Have you written him?” she asked in a low voice.

“Yes,” I answered.

“She would not have known him,” said Helene; “after all these years of waiting she would not have known him.  Her punishment has been great.”

A sound came from the bedroom, and Helene was gone, silently, as she had come.

* * * * * * *

I must have been dozing in the fauteuil, for suddenly I found myself sitting up, listening to an unwonted noise.  I knew from the count of the hoof-beats which came from down the street that a horse was galloping in long strides—­a spent horse, for the timing was irregular.  Then he was pulled up into a trot, then to a walk as I ran to the door and opened it and beheld Nicholas Temple flinging himself from a pony white with lather.  And he was alone!  He caught sight of me as soon as his foot touched the banquette.