“But what the deuce shall I do with it when I get it?” I said, as I let myself in with my latch-key.

I had just put my stick in the stand and was taking off my overcoat, when the door of the room next the diningroom opened, and Antoinette rushed out upon me.

“Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur!” she cried, wringing her hands.  “Oh, Monsieur!  How shall I tell you?”

The good soul broke into sobbing and weeping.

“What is the matter, Antoinette?” Z asked.

“Monsieur must not be angry.  Monsieur is good like the Bon Dieu.  But it will give pain to Monsieur.”

“But what is it?” I cried, mystified.  “Have you spoiled the dinner?”

I was a million miles from any anticipation of her answer.

"Monsieur-she has come back!"

I grew faint for a moment as from a blow over the heart.  Antoinette raised her great tear-stained face.

“Monsieur must not drive her away.”

I pushed her gently aside and entered the little room which I had furnished once as her boudoir.

On the couch sat Carlotta, white and pinched and poorly clad.  At first I was only conscious of her great brown eyes fixed upon me, the dog-like appeal of our first meeting intensified to heart-breaking piteousness.  On seeing me she did not rise, but cowered as if I would strike her.  I looked at her, unable to speak.  Antoinette stood sobbing in the doorway.

“Well?” said I, at last.

“I have come home,” said Carlotta.

“You have been away a long time,” said I.

“Ye-es,” said Carlotta.

“Why have you come?” I asked.

“I had no money,” said Carlotta, with her expressive gesture of upturned palms.  “I had nothing but that.”  She pointed to a tiny travelling bag.  “Everything else was at the Mont de Piete—­the pawnshop—­and they would not keep me any longer at the pension.  I owed them for three weeks, and then they lent me money to buy my ticket to London.  I said Seer Marcous would pay them back.  So I came home.”

“But where—­where is Pasquale?” I asked.

“He went five, six months ago.  He gave me some money and said he would send some more.  But he did not send any.  He went to South Africa.  He said there was a war and he wanted to fight, and he said he was sick of me.  Oh, he was very unkind,” she cried with the quiver of her baby lips.  “I wish I had never seen him.”

“Are you married?”

“No,” said Carlotta.

“Damn him!” said I, between my teeth.

“He was going to marry me, but then he said it did not matter in
Paris.  At first he was so nice, but after a little—­oh, Seer
Marcous dear, he was so cruel.”

There was a short silence.  Antoinette wept by the door, uttering little half-audible exclamations "la pauvre petite, le cher ange!"

Carlotta regarded me wistfully.  I saw a new look of suffering in her eyes.  For myself I felt numb with pain.