It was a sad day for Jacob, for many reasons. His friend had left him for almost certain death. A rude person had come to weary him with reproaches and complaints, and then followed a message from Saint George's street to hasten, as the invalid was in the last extremity. When he arrived, she was no longer of this world. Lia had breathed her last.

There remained the orphan: what should he do with him? To whom confide him? Jacob thought of his mother at first; the good woman blushed; she attributed the parentage to Jacob, and in order to satisfy her scruples, he was obliged to relate to her the whole sad history.

"I believe you," said she; "but will others believe it? Seeing the child under your protection, what calumnies, think you, will be circulated?"

"Is it necessary, then, that I leave this poor innocent to hirelings? And ought I to refuse to do my duty for fear of unjust criticism?"

"The child will never again find a mother, but I will place him in good hands. I will not hinder you from doing a good action, but I will save you from the blame which might attach to your good name. You may leave it to me," said his mother.

In his present mood, Jacob felt instinctively drawn toward Mathilde, and late in the evening he directed his steps to her house. The servants, accustomed to see him enter unannounced, opened the doors of the salon. He waited there for some time, looking at the closed piano, the stiffly-arranged furniture, and the withered flowers in the vases. Everything bore that air of desolation found in houses that have been closed for some time.

Clad in a long, trained peignoir, Mathilde appeared, gliding like a shadow, with slow and measured steps. She was very much changed since he last saw her. Her eyes shone with a feverish fire, and her cheeks were sunken. Her former soft lassitude had become a torpor. She offered him a cold, trembling hand. Jacob understood by this reception that here as elsewhere he had been slandered; but, happily, he was one of those characters whose clear conscience fortify them against all contumely.

"Have I come at an inopportune moment?" said he. "In that case, I will go."

"No. You could not arrive more opportunely. I was anxious to see you, monsieur."

"You are ill."

"Not the least in the world."

"Well, Mathilde, so many unfortunate things have happened to me lately, that I come to you to comfort my tortured heart."

"Your heart? It is in the Old Testament."

"I do not understand you. Do you doubt me?"

"Ah! I do not know. This doubt is killing me. I wish to know all the worst; then I can die. You used to be frank and sincere. Why do you deceive me now, like the others?"

"This is too much, Mathilde," said Jacob.

"Oh! I have proofs of your deceit," cried she. "Would it not be better to confide in me as a sister, and say, 'I love another, I am tired of contact with a corpse. I wish a living creature? I would have answered you thus: 'Go, be happy!' In losing you I would at least have kept my respect for you."

"Why do you not respect me now?"

"What! you dare to deny it?"

"Mathilde," replied Jacob gravely, "I assure you I have done nothing to merit these reproaches. I have never been guilty of forgetting you."

"How explain, then, your mysterious adventure; that woman, who is she?"

"You shall hear the truth," said Jacob. "Listen!" He then related the dark drama of which Lia was the heroine, not omitting the scene of the previous evening and the morning's death. The poor girl's fate made Mathilde weep, but at the same time she felt proud and happy. Her beloved was worthy of her deepest respect. When he had finished she could hardly refrain from throwing herself at Jacob's feet and asking pardon for her unjust suspicions.

"Forgive me," she cried, "for my foolish credulity. But the calumny was so well devised that it had all the appearance of truth. It was repeated to me as undoubtedly true."

"One thing astonishes me: it is that you did not come to me about it immediately. You were wrong not to demand an explanation."

"A long and frightful torture has punished me for my hesitation. The days that have passed since then have been the bitterest of my existence. Your supposed infidelity poisoned all remembrances of the past, and I tried to tear your image from my heart."

"I could not have foreseen that a good action would have had such direful consequences," said Jacob sadly.

"How happy would I be could I adopt the orphan! Unfortunately, in this house I am a slave, a prisoner. I am respected, it is true, and the master surrounds me with luxury to gratify his vanity; he strews flowers on my path to dazzle the world; but in the midst of this perfumed atmosphere I am a captive, and very often envy the working women who live by labour, or in their poverty beg upon the streets. For a long time I have been abandoned. Henri Segel divides his days between the Russians and Muse. When I feel very ill the physician comes here. Sometimes a beggar appears, and, you will not believe it, under this exterior wealth I am often without money, without a sou to give for charity."

She sighed, and continued:--

"To-day I live again; my soul is at peace once more. I have been given back the only man in the world who makes me love humanity and believe in virtue."

Their conversation was continued for a long time. Tea was served at the usual hour, and the Englishwoman arrived, but she had a bad cold and her presence was a constraint. Absorbed in each other, they forgot the world. Mathilde went to the piano, which had been closed for several days, and the celebration of their reconciliation ended with the polonaise of Chopin (A-dur).

When Jacob found himself some distance down the street he went back to look at the house he had just left as if he had a presentiment of not returning.