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Once out of prison she refused to return to
her flat notwithstanding Maupassant’s entreaties.
She vanished into the vast unknown of the
immense city like the doomed animal hiding to
die. I found her by a mere accident a month
later in a bed at St. Lazare—the last stage in the
Via Crucis of all the fallen and forlorn women of
Paris. I told her I would let Maupassant know,
I felt sure he would come to see her at once. I
called at Maupassant’s house the same afternoon,
there was no time to lose, it was evident that she
had not many days to live. The faithful François
was at his usual post as a Cerberus, watching over
his master against any intruders. I tried in
vain to be admitted, the orders were severe, no
visitor was to be admitted under any
circumstances, it was the usual story about the
mysterious lady. All I could do was to scribble a
note about Yvonne to his master which François
promised to deliver at once. Whether he got it
or not I never knew, I hope he did not, it is quite
probable, for François was always trying to keep
his beloved master away from his entanglements
with women. When I came to St. Lazare the
next day, Yvonne was dead. The nun told me
she had spent the whole morning putting rouge
on her face and arranging her hair, she had even
borrowed from an old prostitute in the next bed a
little red silk shawl, last vestige of past splendour,
to cover her emaciated shoulders. She told the
nun she was expecting her Monsieur, she waited
eagerly the whole day but he never came. In the
morning they found her dead in her bed, she had
swallowed to the last drop her portion of chloral.
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