“She is no longer poor,” he repeated.

“No,” she whispered, “she is very, very rich.”

“Tell me about this fortune of hers?”

“She has—­first of all—­her dear Papa.”

“Oh, you little fraud!” said Clerambault, trying to move so that he could see her face, but Rosine put her hands over his eyes: 

“No, I don’t want you to look at me, or say anything to me....”  She kissed him again, and said caressingly: 

“Poor dear little Papa.”

Rosine had now escaped from the cares that weighed on the house, and it was not long before she flew away from the nest altogether, for she had passed her examinations and was sent to a hospital in the South.  Both the Clerambaults felt painfully the loss to their empty fireside.

But the man was not the more lonely of the two.  He knew this and was sincerely sorry for his wife, who had not either the strength of mind to follow his path, nor to leave him.  As for him he felt that now, no matter what happened, he would never be bereft of sympathy; persecution would arouse it, and lead the most reserved people to express their feeling.  A very precious evidence of this came to him at this time.

One day, when he was alone in the apartment, the bell rang and he went to open the door.  A lady was there whom he did not know; she held out a letter, mentioning her name as she did so; in the dim light of the vestibule, she had taken him for the servant, but at once saw her mistake, as he tried to persuade her to come in.  “No,” said she, “I am only a messenger,” and she went away; but when she had gone he found a little bunch of violets that she had laid on a table near the door.  The letter was as follows: 

  “Tu ne cede malis,
  sed contra audentior ito....

“You fight for us, and our hearts are with you.  Pour out your troubles to us, and I will give you my hope, my strength, and my love.  I am one who can act only through you.”

The youthful ardour of these last mysterious words, touched and puzzled Clerambault.  He tried to remember the lady as she stood on his threshold; she was not very young; fine features, grave dark eyes in a worn face.  Where had he seen her before?  The fugitive impression faded as he tried to hold it.

He saw her again two or three days later, not far from him in the Luxembourg Gardens.  She walked on and as he crossed the path to meet her she stopped and waited for him.  He thanked her, and asked why she had gone away so quickly the other day, without saying who she was.  And as he spoke it came to him that he had known her for a long time.  He used to see her formerly in the Luxembourg, or in the neighbouring streets, with a tall boy who must have been her son.  Every time they passed each other their eyes used to meet with a half-smile of respectful recognition.  And though he did not know their name, and they had never exchanged a word, they were to him part of those friendly shadows which throng about our daily life, not always noticed when they are there, but which leave a gap when they disappear.