And that’s how the story will end,” said I, when we had discussed it at great length. “You will leave here for the Continent, and you will not see her again, my dear M., for five or six years. And she’ll have forgotten all about us by then.” “Yes, that is, no,” said M. “It is quite true that I’ll have forgotten you; but you, dear papa, will be just the same. So will you, Mme. J., I am sure, if you are not dead; and, if you are dead, then we shall find out all about it at the end.” But it was in truth the end. Mme. Jérôme died on July 5, 1873, at Greyrock. [Illustration: THE GARRET.] But M. Jérôme was not a man to grow old in grief. The next four years were the most industrious and successful of his life; it was as though his mind, in spite of misfortune, turned in the direction of work. It seemed as if the misfortune had actually brought him to the very threshold of fortune. Two books appeared; a book of poems and a work on the English poets; translations of Dante and of a few poets; his “Dante,” in French, published by Emile Didot; his “Odes de Virgil” and his “Abecedario degli Antichi Poeti.” His fame was already spread throughout Europe; he had written an admirable article on Dante, and was called upon for a large number of translations. The English critics had the same admiration for him that had been displayed by the French journals. At the close of that year there was still no settled work in store for him. And it was during the next year that, for the first time in his life, he heard a doubt put into words: was it not very probable that he had come to the end of his resources? Was it not possible that there was nothing in him besides ability? Was it not possible that he had only to turn round to find himself, at the end of a day, on the bench of a workhouse? Of all this he was dimly conscious, but the conviction did not penetrate into his consciousness. Nothing mattered. The old life, with its work and its frivolity, went on as before. He had his work; he was the father of a family, whom he loved very much; his pleasures were few and far between, for he lived only for his work. The last thing in the world that he ever wanted was a pension from a Government; it never occurred to him, as it did to that other man, to accept a gift from a private patron. He did not even take any particular pleasure in his pension from the State. He regarded it, as did every man of modest means who has any self-respect, as a humiliation. “Yes,” he wrote, in one of his letters to M. Durand, who was trying to induce him to accept it; “I am not one of those to whom a pension from the State is an honour, but a humiliation. Let me leave my work and my name as I have left them, if it be not for you, to some one else.” He accepted the pension simply because he could not afford to be poor, and he refused many offers of help with real pleasure. “I cannot help asking you,” he wrote to M. Durand in May, 1873, “to come to lunch with me on Sunday; I shall then have leisure to show you the last proofs of my forthcoming book on Dante, which is published by Didot. “And if I have not seen you at any time, will you believe that I am always in the closest and most fraternal relations with you?... I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for the many excellent and noble letters which you have written to me. I could ask you for nothing that you could not give me. I am more deeply attached to you than you will ever know.” It was not that M. Jérôme was in any way indifferent to his pension. But he was more indifferent to comfort than he was to work, and he believed that the pleasure of working would carry him through the most distressed period of his life. He did not know that all his work was to be finished before many years had passed. He was well-aware that life was short. He wrote: “I am too old to enjoy luxury and too poor to indulge it.” But he could not believe that his end was coming. He was convinced, and he tried to explain to himself how it was to be borne, that death does not choose the time or the place for striking the blow. He did not expect it for many years to come. He did not think that it was at Greyrock that the blow would be struck; he did not think that it would be this day month, or that it would be in December, 1874, when death entered the house; when those he loved were with him, and those of the family who were not already in the grave, in a few weeks or a few days, would follow them. He was conscious of being in the shadow of the same destiny as other men. He did not believe that the blow was to be struck by anything less than a great misfortune; his life had suffered many misfortunes. Of that life which had cost him so much effort, he would have none regrets. He had spent eighteen years in building it; and he did not care to ask who was to blame for the failure of the enterprise. He found it difficult, when he was a child, to think about the “happy age,” when everybody he loved was still alive, and to which, in later years, in the midst of all his failures and miseries, he never ceased to look back with regret. He had been happy with his wife, when she was young and beautiful; but her death had turned his head a little, and had clouded his understanding. He made no complaint of her. His life since then had been lived happily. When he thought of the past he did not think of her; his happiness before her death was the happiness he had in his love for her; and her death was a misfortune to which he looked forward, rather than regret an unhappy past. He did not say that the future of a human being is sacred, and he did not believe that it was for ever sealed. He would accept no theory that limited his will or the power of human effort. He loved this life of ours as a great joy, and he took from it as much pleasure as he was able. But at the same time he was convinced that it was not his to enjoy, and he was resigned. He never gave in to the idea of suicide. He believed that a man was always doing what he ought to do, even when he did not feel inclined to act. The first few months of 1874 were dark in that house. M. Gaston Durand, though at a distance, with his love, was constantly thinking of them. He would have given half of the little that remained to him to be near them. But he could do nothing for them. There was nothing in M. Jérôme’s power or strength to which he could appeal; there was nothing in his love that he could claim. And he could not even think of offering the poor exile the affection and the interest of his daily life. Mme. Jérôme was no more; and M. Jérôme and his children were alone together. As the poet wrote: “All alone on earth we are, in all this dark, And the earth itself, without thee, would seem to die, More sad by night than by the waning of the day, When we, with a faint voice, must cry out unto the star.” M. Jérôme was alone; but not very often did he suffer the dark mood that filled the house; for he knew that this solitude was an undertaking for life. Those who remained were strong; and one was young. He would be able to bear the loneliness, that brought so many tears in other days. And if these thoughts came to him at certain moments, he would send them away. He thought of Mme. Jérôme, and he said, “We must not be sad. We must live together for our children, and for her who is not here. And as we live together we must be happy. If we are not happy we shall be unhappy.” On April 1st of that year M. Jérôme and his eldest son set off on a walk. It was cold, but clear, and the air was full of the fresh smell of the mountain. When they reached Greyrock and looked towards the sea they saw a fine rain falling over the rocks and breaking over the highest ridges of the mountain