Mariette's heart was fortunately too pure, and she was, moreover, too preoccupied with her own thoughts to feel the wretched bitterness of this last sarcasm. Drawing the letter she had received from her bosom, she placed it on her lap where her godmother's eyes could not reach it, and gazed longingly at it while continuing her work.

The regular breathing of the invalid soon convinced her that she was asleep, however, and she paused in her work long enough to tear open the envelope and spread the letter before her eyes. Vain and puerile curiosity! The characters were undecipherable to her! No picture could be more sorrowful and touching than the sight of this young girl, gazing with a fast beating heart at the unintelligible missive. One thing she remarked, however; the letter was very short, and this fact filled her with hope and uneasiness both.

Did this short, urgent letter announce good or bad news? she anxiously asked herself.

With her eyes fixed on the mysterious words, Mariette lost herself in conjectures and suppositions, fully convinced that so short a letter, after a prolonged absence, must inevitably bring unexpected news. In her poignant perplexity Mariette endured torments and excruciating torture, to which the uneducated are continually exposed. To hold in our grasp, and beneath our eyes, the few lines that bring us joy or sorrow, and be unable to penetrate the secret; to be under the necessity of asking a stranger to read these lines, and to receive from indifferent lips the announcement of something on which life itself almost depends, is an agony beyond words!

Mariette's anguish soon reached such a point that she resolved, at the risk of being cruelly treated on her return, to have recourse to the public scribe at once. Cautiously arising from her seat, that she might not arouse the sick woman, she tiptoed softly to the door; but as she crossed the threshold, a sudden painful thought stopped her. She could not ask the scribe to read the letter without dictating a reply, and she possessed barely enough money to purchase the bread necessary for the day. She already owed the baker twenty francs, and he had refused her further credit; she could not, therefore, spend her last sou on what she considered as culpable prodigality. The reader may smile at this picture of overwhelming grief and cruel recriminations against herself apropos of a couple of fifty centime pieces. Alas! no sum is small or insignificant to the poor; an increase of ten sous in wages brings back life to the starved bodies, alleviates that living agony which leads so many to a premature grave.

For a moment the young girl was tempted to carry Louis' letter to the janitress; but fearing the gossip and perhaps the raillery of the woman, she preferred to make a painful sacrifice and not expose herself to new humiliations. She still possessed a pretty dress, bought at the Temple and altered to her figure, which she had worn only on the few occasions she had gone out with Louis. Taking the gown from its accustomed peg in the corner, she folded it into a basket with a silk fichu that was almost new, and walked cautiously to the door once more.

"Going out again—" muttered her godmother, drowsily, as she turned over in her bed and dropped asleep once more.

Mariette stood motionless for a moment, then glided softly through the door and ran swiftly down the stairs.

Having obtained fifty sous on the gown and fichu at the Mont-de-PiÉtÉ, she hurried toward the Charnier des Innocents in quest of 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. "You were leaning so far over the parapet that I thought you would lose your footing any moment."

"Thank you, madame," replied Mariette, "I am very careless, indeed."

"You must be more careful, my dear," returned the woman warningly.
"Heavens! how pale you are—are you ill?"

"I feel a little faint, madame," said the girl, feeling a painful dizziness come over her, "but it will pass away."

"Lean on me, then. You are, no doubt, just recovering from a serious illness?"

"Yes—that's it, madame," responded Mariette, passing her hand over her brow, "but where am I?"

"At the Pont au Change—Are you a stranger in Paris?" asked the woman, curiously.

"No, madame; but I was overcome with a strange feeling of dizziness a few moments ago. It is passing over now, and I recognize the surroundings."

"You had better take my arm, you are trembling so," suggested the kind-hearted woman.

"Thank you, madame; it's not necessary, I live only a few steps from here."

"Well, good-bye, and be very cautious."

Having recovered the entire possession of her senses, Mariette now felt her bitter sorrows even more keenly than before; and she trembled at the thought of the harsh reception that awaited her in her desolate home, when she had so much need of consolation, or, at least, of that isolation and sad tranquility which lulls the most intense grief into calm hopelessness.

Being anxious to mitigate the cruel reproaches which her prolonged absence would inevitably draw upon her, she bethought herself of her godmother's desire to obtain the part of a chicken, and determined to satisfy this whim in the hope of being forgiven. She therefore hastened to the neighboring shops, purchased the quarter of a fowl and two white rolls with what remained of the money obtained on her gown and fichu, and turned homeward once more.

As she neared the house she was somewhat surprised to see an elegant cabriolet before the door; but she entered without giving the circumstance another thought, and stopping at the lodge asked for her key.

"Your key, Mademoiselle Mariette?" said Madame Justin, "why, a gentleman has just gone up with it."

"What gentleman?" queried the girl.

"A decorated gentleman. And finely decorated, too, I assure you. A ribbon two good inches wide—and such a loop! Upon my word, I never saw a man more beautifully decorated."

"But I don't know any decorated gentleman," exclaimed the girl in astonishment. "He must be mistaken."

"No, indeed. He inquired for a woman named Lacombe, a cripple living with her goddaughter, who is a seamstress. There is no mistake, as you see."

"Didn't you tell him that my god-mother was ill and could see no one?"

"Yes, I did. But he said he must see her on very important and urgent business; so I gave him the key and let him go up alone, having no desire to be abused by your godmother."

More and more astonished, Mariette ascended the rickety stairs to the fifth floor, pausing on the landing to recover her breath and find some excuse for her long absence. The door being ajar, she caught a glimpse of a stranger within the room, and the next moment distinctly heard these words:

"I am delighted to find your god-daughter away, my good woman; I can explain myself more clearly without her presence."

Mariette, who had been on the point of entering, yielded to an involuntary sentiment of curiosity instead, and remained where she stood.