At last, one night in late summer, she did not appear. It was after a
day when she had sung more insolently than ever, drunk more than her
accustomed allowance, and had shown Ambroise the purse--the sockets of
the serpent's eyes untenanted by the beautiful carbuncles. Apathetic as
he had become, he was surprised at her absence. It was either caprice or
serious illness. She had dwindled to a skeleton, with a maleficent
smile. Her teeth were yellow, her hands become claws, the scarlet of her
clothes a drab hue, the plumes on her hat gone. Ambroise wondered. About
midnight a mean-looking fellow entered and asked for him. A lady, a very
ill lady, was in a coupé at the door. He hurried out. It was Aholibah.
Her eyes were glazed and her lips black and cracked. She tried to croon,
in a hoarse voice:--

"I am the Woman of Morocco!" But her head fell on the window-sill of the
carriage. Ambroise lifted the weary head on his shoulder. His eyes were
so dry that they seemed thirsty. The old glamour gripped him. The cabman
held the reins and waited; it was an every-night occurrence for him. The
starlight could not penetrate to the Boulevard through the harsh
electric glare; and the whirring of wheels and laughter of the café's
guests entered the soul of Ambroise like steel nails. She opened her
eyes.

"I am that Aholibah ... a witness through waste Asia ... that the strong
men and the Captains knew ..." This line of Swinburne's was pronounced
in the purest English. Ambroise did not understand. Then followed some
rapidly uttered jargon that might have been Moorish. He soothed her, and
softly passed his hand over her rough and dishevelled hair. His heart
was bursting. She was after all his Aholibah, his first love. A crowd
gathered. He asked for a doctor. A dozen students ran in a dozen
different directions. The tired horse stamped its feet impatiently, and