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“Sapre! that P’tite Louison get pale like snow, and we all stan’ roun’ her close and say to her quick, ‘Courage, P’tite Louison!’ M’sieu’ Hadrian then look at the priest and say: ‘No, M’sieu’, I was married ten years ago; my wife drink and go wrong, and I get divorce. I am free like the wind.’

“‘You are not free,’ the Cure say quick. ‘Once married, married till death. The Church cannot marry you again, and I command Louison to give you up.’

“P’tite Louison stan’ like stone. M’sieu’ turn to her. ‘What shall it be, Louison?’ he say. ‘You will come with me?’

“‘Kiss me, Charles,’ she say, ‘and tell me good-bye till–till you are free.’

“He look like a madman. ‘Kiss me once, Charles,’ she say, ‘and let me go.’

“And he come to her and kiss her on the lips once, and he say, ‘Louison, come with me. I will never give you up.’

“She draw back to Florian. ‘Good-bye, Charles,’ she say. ‘I will wait as long as you will. Mother of God, how hard it is to do right!’ she say, and then she turn and leave the room.

“M’sieu’ Hadrian, he give a long sigh. ‘It was my one chance,’ he say. ‘Now the devil take it all!’ Then he nod and say to the Cure: ‘We’ll thrash this out at Judgment Day, M’sieu’. I’ll meet you there–you and the woman that spoiled me.’

“He turn to Florian and the rest of us, and shake hands, and say: ‘Take care of Louison. Thank you. Good-bye.’ Then he start towards the door, but stumble, for he look sick. ‘Give me a drink,’ he say, and begin to cough a little–a queer sort of rattle. Florian give him big drink, and he toss it off-whiff! ‘Thank you,’ he say, and start again, and we see him walk away over the hill ver’ slow–an’ he never come back. But every year there come from New York a box of flowers, and every year P’tite Louison send him a ‘Merci, Charles, mille fois. Dieu to garde.’ It is so every year for twenty-five year.”

“Where is he now?” asked Medallion.

Isidore shook his head, then lifted his eyes religiously. “Waiting for Judgment Day and P’tite Louison,” he answered.

“Dead!” said Medallion.

“How long?”

“Twenty year.”

“But the flowers–the flowers?”

“He left word for them to be sent just the same, and the money for it.”

Medallion turned and took off his hat reverently, as if a soul were passing from the world; but it was only P’tite Louison going out into the garden.

“She thinks him living?” he asked gently as he watched Louison.

“Yes; we have no heart to tell her. And then he wish it so. And the flowers kep’ coming.”

“Why did he wish it so?” Isidore mused a while.

“Who can tell? Perhaps a whim. He was a great actor–ah, yes, sublime!” he said.

Medallion did not reply, but walked slowly down to where P’tite Louison was picking berries. His hat was still off.

“Let me help you, Mademoiselle,” he said softly. And henceforth he was as foolish as her brothers.