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Updated: May 4, 2025
"The boy of Monsieur de Savignac brought her an hour ago, monsieur," answered the little maid. "There is a note for monsieur. I have left it on the table." "Take her, my friend. I can no longer keep her with me. You have the son, it is only right you should have the mother. We leave for Paris to-morrow. We shall meet there soon, I trust. If you come here, do not bring her with you.
The bay of Pont du Sable, which the incoming tide had so swiftly filled at daylight, now lay a naked waste of oozing black mud. The birds had gone with the receding sea, and I was back from shooting, loafing over my pipe and coffee in a still corner among the roses of my wild garden, hidden behind the old wall, when that Customhouse soldier-gardener of mine, Pierre, appeared with the following message: "Monsieur de Savignac presents his salutations the most distinguished and begs that monsieur will give him the pleasure of calling on him
He watches those to whom he plays, singling out the one who needs his fiddle most, and to-night he was watching de Savignac. We had finished our steaming dish of lobster, smothered in a spiced sauce that makes a cold dry wine only half quench one's thirst, and were proceeding with a crisp salad when Boldi, with a rushing crescendo slipped into a delicious waltz.
During the horror and grim reality of it all the screaming women, the physician working desperately, although he knew all hope was gone while the calm police questioned me as to his identity and domicile, I shook from head to foot and yet the worst was still to come I had to tell Madame de Savignac. It is at last decided!
As the czardas quickened until its pace reached the speed of a whirlwind, de Savignac suddenly staggered to his feet his breath coming in short gasps. "Sit down!" I pleaded, not liking the sudden purplish hue of his cheeks. "Let me alone," he stammered, half angrily. "It is so good to be alive again." "You shall not," I whispered, my eye catching sight of a gold louis between his fingers.
Then she screamed, for she saw Monsieur de Savignac sway heavily, and sink back in his seat, his chin on his chest, his eyes closed. I ripped open his collar and shirt to give him breath. Twice his chest gave a great bound, and he murmured something I did not catch then he sank back in my arms dead.
It was not until March that the long-gathering storm broke as quick as a crackling lizard of lightning strikes. Le Gros had foreclosed the mortgage. The Château of Hirondelette was up for sale. When de Savignac came out to open the gate for me late that evening his face was as white as the palings in the moonlight.
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