the old scribe. Since Mariette's departure, and more especially since he had read his son's letter in the morning, the old man had reflected with ever-growing anxiety over the obstacles he might have to overcome to accomplish his cherished project, in view of the secret he had discovered during his interview with the young girl. He was still buried in painful meditation when Mariette suddenly appeared at the door.
"What is it, my child?" he asked, alarmed at this unexpected return.
"I did not expect to see you back so soon."
"I have a letter from M. Louis, monsieur," she replied, her voice quivering slightly, as she drew the missive from her bosom, "and I have come to beg you to read it for me—and answer it if necessary."
Trembling with uneasiness and curiosity, she gazed intently at the old man while he glanced through the short letter, making a strong effort to conceal the annoyance given him by the few lines. Then suddenly starting up, and feigning great indignation, he tore the letter into shreds, crushed the pieces between his hands and hurled them under his desk.
"Ah, monsieur, what have you done!" cried Mariette in dismay.
"Ah! my poor child!" sighed the old man, looking at her pityingly.
"My God! something has happened M. Louis!" she gasped, clasping her hands together.
"No, my child—but you must forget him."
"Forget him?"'
"Yes, believe me; you must renounce your cherished hopes."
"Heavens! what has happened?"
"Ignorance is a very sad thing, my poor child; and yet, at this moment,
I would pity you if you could read."
"But, monsieur, what does the letter contain?"
"You must think no more of your marriage—"
"Does M. Louis write that?"
"Yes; he appeals to your generosity and delicacy, as well as your kindness of heart."
"M. Louis gives me up—and tells me to give him up also," she said slowly.
"Alas! yes, poor child! Come, be brave and resigned."
Mariette turned ghastly pale and stood silent for a moment, while big tears rolled down her cheeky; then, falling to her knees, she gathered the fragments of the torn letter and placed them on the desk before the old man's eyes.
"I shall have the courage to hear it through," she said sadly; "replace the pieces and read it."
"Please don't insist, my child, I beg of you," he rejoined, with hypocritical sympathy.
"In mercy, read it, monsieur!"
"But—"
"However painful it may be for me to listen, I must know its contents."
"I have already told you what it contained—spare yourself useless pain."
"Have pity on me, monsieur! In the name of heaven, read it—read it! I must at least know the full extent of my misfortune—and, besides, there may be one line or word of consolation."
"Since you insist on it, my poor child, I shall read it," said the old man, readjusting the torn pieces, while Mariette looked on with eyes dimmed with tears, her heart throbbing with anguish. "Here it is."
"My Dear Mariette:
"I write these few words in haste, my soul filled with the sadness of death. We must renounce our hopes, for I must secure comfort and rest for my father in his old days. You know how much I love my father. I have given my word, and we shall never meet again.
"One last prayer: I address myself to your delicacy of feelings and generosity of heart—do not attempt to see me again, or change my resolution. I must choose between you and my father; and if I see you again I may not have the courage to do my duty as a son. My father's fate lies in your hands, and I count on your generosity. Farewell, I can write no more.
"Farewell once more, Farewell forever!
Louis."
Standing motionless beside the writer's desk, with downcast eyes and the tears rolling silently down her pale cheeks, her lips quivering and her hands clasped convulsively together, Mariette presented a fit model for the picture of "Despair," as she listened to the words that crushed her heart with such cruel force.
"There. I was sure the letter would pain you frightfully," observed the old man, looking up as he finished reading.
Mariette made no reply.
"Don't tremble so, my child," resumed the old scribe. "Sit down—here, take this glass of fresh water."
Mariette did not even hear; but still stood gazing fixedly at the torn letter, though she saw it but dimly through her tears.
"It is all over, then," she murmured brokenly. "Nothing—nothing more in this world!—I was too happy. Ah! I am like godmother; happiness was not made for me!—"
Her voice died out in a stifled sob, and a pang of remorse smote the old man as he gazed at her white, set face.
"My dear child," he said soothingly, "pray don't give way to despair."
These words recalled the young girl to herself; she wiped away her tears and, bending down, slowly gathered the pieces of the letter.
"What are you doing?" cried the scribe, in alarm. "Why should you preserve these fragments, which can only recall cruel souvenirs?"
"The tomb of some one we have loved, also recalls painful and cherished souvenirs," said Mariette, sadly, "and yet we do not desert it."
Having replaced the pieces in the envelope, she again thrust it in her bosom; and, drawing her thin shawl closely about her shoulders, turned toward the door. On the threshold, however, she paused hesitatingly and looked back at the old man.
"Thank you very much for your kindness, monsieur," she said gratefully; then, after a moment's silence, she added timidly: "Although there is no answer to this letter, I feel that after so much trouble I should offer you—"
"It will be ten sous, the same as a letter," interrupted the scribe; and without the least scruple or hesitation, he pocketed the remuneration with a sort of sensual pleasure, entirely unimpaired by the girl's wretchedness.
"Good-bye, my poor child," he said, "I hope we shall meet again under happier circumstances."
"May heaven grant it, monsieur."
She walked slowly away, while old Richard closed the shutters of his shop and prepared to return home.
Haunted by the most somber thoughts, and a prey to the most poignant emotions, Mariette walked mechanically onward, unconscious of surroundings, and of the way she went, until startled by the sight of the river.
"Fate has brought me here," she said with a shudder.
Crossing to the opposite side of the bridge, she leaned on the parapet and gazed at the rapid waters of the stream. Little by little, she began to experience that strange fascination caused by the attraction of the abyss; and as her eyes followed the swift current, she felt overtaken by a sort of vertigo and drawn more and more toward the flowing waters.
"Here is oblivion and an end to all sorrows!" thought the unhappy girl. "It is a sure refuge against all miseries, against fear and hunger, illness and unhappy old age—wretched as that of my godmother's—Ah! what would become of her without me?—"
At that moment she felt her arm grasped violently, and a frightened voice cried out:
"Look out, child, or you will fall into the river!"
The girl drew back shuddering, and gazed wildly around her.
"Do you know that you are very imprudent, to say the least of it, my child," said a good-natured looking woman, who stood beside her.