which most mourners carry in their breasts was not his, as he walked down
the mountainside from Carmen's grave. Behind him trotted Mme. Glozel and
Mme. Popincourt, like little magpies, attendants on this eagle of sorrow
whose life-love had been laid to rest, her heart-troubles over. Passion
or ennui would no more vex her.

She had had a soul, had Carmen Dolores, though she had never known it
till her days closed in on her, and from the dusk she looked out of the
casements of life to such a glowing as Jean Jacques had seen when his
burning mill beatified the evening sky. She had known passion and vivid
life in the days when she went hand-in-hand with Carvillho Gonzales
through the gardens of Granada; she had known the smothering home-
sickness which does not alone mean being sick for a distant home, but a
sickness of the home that is; and she had known what George Masson gave
her for one thrilling hour, and then--then the man who left her in her
death-year, taking not only the last thread of hope which held her to
life. This vulture had taken also little things dear to her daily life,
such as the ring Carvillho Gonzales had given her long ago in Cadiz, also
another ring, a gift of Jean Jacques, and things less valuable to her,
such as money, for which she knew surely she would have no long use.

As she lay waiting for the day when she must go from the garish scene,
she unconsciously took stock of life in her own way. There intruded on
her sight the stages of the theatres where she had played and danced, and
she heard again the music of the paloma and those other Spanish airs
which had made the world dance under her girl's feet long ago. At first
she kept seeing the faces of thousands looking up at her from the stalls,
down at her from the gallery, over at her from the boxes; and the hot
breath of that excitement smote her face with a drunken odour that sent
her mad. Then, alas! somehow, as disease took hold of her, there were