takes a grudge against a man, she never lets up. She exacts the
uttermost farthing. I was pretty badly off, but I had one treasure
left--I had Godelinette. I used to think that she was my compensation.
I would say to myself, "A man can't have all blessings. How can you
expect others, when you've got her?" And I would accuse myself of
ingratitude for complaining of my unsuccess. Then she fell ill. My
God, how I watched over, prayed over her! It seemed impossible--I
could not believe--that she would be taken from me. Yet, Harry, do you
know what that poor child was thinking? Do you know what her dying
thoughts were--her wishes? Throughout her long painful illness she was
thinking that she was an obstacle in my way, a weight upon me; that if
it weren't for her, I should get on, have friends, a position; that it
would be a good thing for me if she should die; and she was hoping in
her poor little heart that she wouldn't get well! Oh, I know it, I
knew it--and you see me here alive. She let herself die for my
sake--as if I could care for anything without her. That's what brought
us here, to France, to Bordeaux--her illness. The doctors said she
must pass the spring out of England, away from the March winds, in the
South; and I begged and borrowed money enough to take her. And we were
on our way to Arcachon; but when we reached Bordeaux she was too ill
to continue the journey, and--she died here.'

We walked on for some distance in silence, then he added: 'That was
four years ago. You wonder why I live to tell you of it, why I
haven't cut my throat. I don't know whether it's cowardice or
conscientious scruples. It seems rather inconsequent to say that I
believe in a God, doesn't it?--that I believe one's life is not one's
own to make an end of? Anyhow, here I am, keeping body and soul
together as musician to a _brasserie-à-femmes_. I can't go back
to England, I can't leave Bordeaux--she's buried here. I've