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DEPARTURE.

But the time finally came for my friend to leave. Her studies were over; her life as a public singer was about to begin. She packed her trunks surrounded by a bevy of noisy girl-friends. They had come to take her away ... I watched as in a dream ...

Almost covered by huge chrysanthemums -- it was the season -- she drew me to her, whispered some words I did not hear, then, kissing me, left the house for-ever. I ran to her room. The floor was covered with chrysanthenum petals ... Her fragrance was alive about me ... I thrust into my blouse a forgotten black veil - a token of loss and mourning.

Numb with grief I returned to the usual routine but my reactions were those of an automation. A few days later, one being told that my mother was expecting me at the hotel, I was glad to go to her, for the first time in my life. I hoped that my grief would be diverted by the extreme discomfort of her presence.

She was waiting for me in her carriage at the hotel entrance; she beckoned me to join her. "We are now going to the station to see your brother off", she said by way of greeting. "He is leaving for Mentone".

During the drive she began muttering and pulling on and off her gloves. Her eyes were fixed as if on some inner problem. When we arrived she quickly left the carriage. I followed her as she made her way to the platform from which the train was about to leave.

Reaching my brother's compartment I looked up and saw, framed in the window, St. Amar's doubled-up form and -- was it possible? -- on either side of him stood a pretty and much befeathered lady, a blonde and a brunette. These ladies were smiling. One took my brother's hand