She was incurable. Her lungs were seriously affected, and those about her
feared for her life.

"If she remains here, she will not last until the winter," said the
doctor.

She was sent south. She came to Cannes, made the acquaintance of the sun,
loved the sea, and breathed the perfume of orange blossoms.

Then, in the spring, she returned north.

But she now lived with the fear of being cured, with the fear of the long
winters of Normandy; and as soon as she was better she opened her window
by night and recalled the sweet shores of the Mediterranean.

And now she is going to die. She knows it and she is happy.

She unfolds a newspaper which she has not already opened, and reads this
heading:

"The first snow in Paris."

She shivers and then smiles. She looks across at the Esterel, which is
becoming rosy in the rays of the setting sun. She looks at the vast blue
sky, so blue, so very blue, and the vast blue sea, so very blue also, and
she rises from her seat.

And then she returned to the house with slow steps, only stopping to
cough, for she had remained out too long and she was cold, a little cold.