Two weeks later we carried an invalid to the baths of Switzerland. We remained there two months, then, finding that he grew worse, conveyed him back to Paris.
Three months elapsed. A funeral cortége wound up the paths of Père le Chaise. A coffin was lowered into a new-made grave. Upon its brink stood an old grey-haired man upholding and consoling a beautiful but sorrow-hearted woman—one who had but recently been a bride.
Four months passed: I was on the eve of quitting France. I went to the cemetery, and for an hour sat by a tombstone, on which was sculptured these words—
“Beverly, the Rosicrucian.
“Je renais de Mes Cendres!”
That was all!