Last Prowl

In Paris a death watch of newspapermen sat lounging, smoking, dozing in the downstairs hall of an unpretentious house. Above them one of the greatest sons of France lay on his death bed. To be sure there was a back stairs down which in silent, slippered feet the dying man could slip out and elude the watch. But whoever heard of such a thing? No one had heard until last week when withered Rose Caron, once long ago a great singer at the Paris Opera and a bosom friend of Georges Clemenceau, died. With almost her last breath Mme Caron told members of her family that one night, eight nights before his death, staunch, indomitable old Tiger Clemenceau came tapping at her door. "Mon Dieu, is it, really you, Georges?'' cried Mme Caron, "I was told you were very sick and unable to leave your bed'' (evening papers had said he was unconscious). "Almost correct, Rose!" whispered the ashen-faced Tiger and swayed, but managed to regain his balance, managed even to bow and kiss Mme Caron's hand. "Almost correct--you behold not a sick man but one as good as dead. I have come to say farewell while there is yet time. We will never see each other more, but-- having been friends for 40 years--could I depart without repeating my affection for you? No, no--impossible!" According to Mme Caron's dying revelation the Tiger's midnight prowl was carried out with his faithful chauffeur Franc,ois as an accomplice, and was not detected by his doctors, whom Clemenceau always delighted to hoodwink, always addressed in terms of affectionate scorn.

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