"If madame wishes; just as madame says."

But the old lady had turned to Mr. Horace. "Horace, you have seen--you
know--" and it was a question now of overcoming emotion. "I--I--I--a
carriage, my friend, a carriage."

"Madame--" Jules interrupted his smile to interrupt her.

She was walking around the room, picking up a shawl here, a lace
there; for she was always prepared against draughts.

"Madame--" continued Jules, pursuing her.

"A carriage."

"If madame would only listen, I was going to say--but madame is too
quick in her disposition--the carriage has been waiting since a long
hour ago. Mr. Horace said to have it there in a half hour."

It was then she saw for the first time that it had all been prepared
by Mr. Horace. The rest was easy enough: getting into the carriage,
and finding the place of which Mr. Horace had heard, as he said, only
that afternoon. In it, on her bed of illness, poverty, and suffering,
lay the patient, wasted form of the beautiful fair one whom men had
called in her youth Myosotis.

But she did not call her Myosotis.

"_Mon Amour!_" The old pet name, although it had to be fetched across
more than half a century of disuse, flashed like lightning from