A sad picture met the young man's eyes, as he paused for a moment on the threshold of the room occupied by Mariette and her godmother. Lying on a thin mattress in a corner of the room was the young girl, seemingly unconscious; her features were of a deathly pallor and painfully contracted, and traces of abundant tears stained her marble cheeks; one hand lay listlessly at her side, while in the other she convulsively clutched the envelope containing the debris of Louis' letter. Kneeling by the bedside, her harsh, sarcastic features softened by an expression of touching grief and cruel anxiety, Mme. Lacombe was supporting Mariette's head with her mutilated arm, while with the other hand she was endeavoring to force a few drops of water through the livid lips.

At the sight of a stranger standing in the doorway, however, her features resumed the habitual expression of harshness and moroseness.

"What do you want?" she asked roughly. "Why do you come in without rapping at the door?—I don't know you!—who are you?"

Taking no notice of these many questions, Louis rushed to the bedside and threw himself on his knees beside the unconscious girl, crying: "My God! what has happened?—Mariette, Mariette, speak to me!"

"So you are Louis Richard?" exclaimed the old woman, her eyes flashing angrily as she gazed at the young man.

"Yes; but in heaven's name, tell me what has happened to Mariette!"

"You have killed her!"

"I—great heavens!"

"And when she is dead, you will provide for me, I suppose?" sneered
Mme. Lacombe.

"Dead!—Mariette dead!" gasped Louis. "It is impossible!—But we must summon a physician, do something—her hands are icy—Mariette! Mariette!" he called wildly. "My God! my God! she does not hear me!"

"And this is all the fault of that letter of yours, you impudent scoundrel!" interposed the old woman fiercely.

"My letter?—what letter?" he asked in astonishment.

"Ah, yes; you will lie about it and deny the whole thing now, of course! But last night the poor child broke down in despair and confessed the whole thing to me."

"But what did she have to confess?"

"That she loved you and you had deserted her for another—"

"But on the contrary I wrote to Mariette that—"

"You lie!" cried the old woman vehemently. "I tell you she read your letter; there it is now, clutched in her fingers! Heavens! what a flood of tears she shed over that rag! Go out of my sight, you worthless rake! We were very stupid indeed to refuse the good offer made to us. Yet, I told Mariette virtue brought little reward in this world. And now she is dying, and I am out into the street, without fire or shelter, without bread or anything, for everything will go for back rent. Happily," she added, with a grim smile, "I have still a small measure of charcoal left—and charcoal is the deliverance of poor people from misery."

"My God! this is horrible!" moaned Louis, unable to restrain his tears. "I swear that we are the victims of some terrible mistake, madame—Mariette! Mariette! speak to me!—It is I—Louis!"

"Do you want to kill her on the spot?" cried the exasperated woman, trying to push him away. "If she recovers consciousness, the sight of you will finish her."

"Heaven be praised!" murmured Louis, resisting the woman's efforts and bending over the girl. "See, her hands are relaxing and her eyes opening—Mariette! it is I, Louis! do you hear me?"

The girl's eyes roamed around the room for a moment, then slowly turned on the young man, who still leaned anxiously over her. Soon an expression of joyful surprise spread itself over her pale features and she attempted to raise her head, supporting herself on her elbow.

"Louis!" she murmured, feebly. "Ah! I thought I would never see you again—"

Then as the sad reality returned to her mind, she threw herself in Mme.
Lacombe's arms and burst into tears.

"Ah! godmother," she sobbed, "he comes to say farewell—it is all over!"

"There now, didn't I tell you this would finish her!" cried Mme.
Lacombe, fiercely. "Go, I say! and never let me see your face again!"

"Mariette! in mercy listen to me!" pleaded Louis. "I did not come to say farewell, but to tell you that I love you more than ever."

"Heavens! can it be true?" murmured the girl, starting up.

"We have been the victims of some error, Mariette," continued the young man. "I have never ceased to love you for a single moment; no, never. During my absence, I had but one thought, one desire; it was to see you again and fix the day of our marriage, as I told you in my letter—"

"Your letter!" interrupted the girl, sadly. "Have you already forgotten what you wrote, Louis? Here—read it."

"He can deny his own writing, of course," growled Mme. Lacombe, as the young man hastily placed the torn pieces together; "and you'll be stupid enough to believe him."

"This is what I wrote, Mariette," said Louis, when he had succeeded in his difficult task.

"My Dear Mariette:

"I shall be with you the day following the receipt of this letter. What I have suffered during this short separation proves that I cannot live without you. Thank God, the day of our union is fast approaching. Tomorrow is the sixth of May, remember. I shall speak to my father the moment I reach home, and I am sure he will not refuse his consent.

"Farewell, then, until day after to-morrow, my darling Mariette. I love you madly, or wisely, rather; for I was wise to seek and find happiness in a heart like yours.

"Yours forever and ever. LOUIS."

"I write these few lines only, because I shall be in Paris almost as soon as my letter; and then, it is always painful to think that other eyes see what I write for you only. Were it not for this, how many things might I not say!"

Mariette was so astounded that she could find no word to say.

"I cannot understand how this letter could have produced such a sad effect on you?" said Louis, much perplexed.

"Is that really what the letter says?" asked the amazed girl.

"Certainly. Here, Madame Lacombe, read it," suggested Louis, placing the fragments before her.

"You know very well that I can't read," replied the old woman, roughly.
"How is it that the contrary was told Mariette?"

"Who read it for you, Mariette?" asked Louis.

"The public scribe," she informed him.

"A public scribe!" exclaimed the young man, a fearful suspicion flashing through his mind. "In mercy, explain yourself!"

"There is very little to explain, my dear Louis. I went in search of a public scribe, at the Charnier des Innocents, and dictated a letter for you to a very kind old gentleman. He was so kind, indeed, that he only charged me ten sous, although he was obliged to write it twice, having spilt the bottle of ink on the first copy as he was preparing to address it to Dreux. When I reached home again, I found this letter from you; then I went back to the public scribe—for he had shown much interest in me—and he read it for me. According to him, the letter said that we should never meet again; that your father's future happiness and your own depended on our separation, and that—" But she could say no more, and burst into tears.

Louis understood it all, however, from the chance meeting of Mariette with his father, to the stratagem of the latter to deceive them both. This abuse of confidence overwhelmed him with such grief and shame, that he dared not admit the tie of relationship existing between himself and the public scribe, but sought another plausible explanation of this deceit and treachery.

"Notwithstanding his apparent good nature and benevolence, this old
rascal must have been trying to amuse himself at your expense, my poor
Mariette," said the young man. "He read you just the contrary of what
I had written."

"Oh! how could he be so cruel!" cried the girl, clasping her two hands together. "He appeared so good, and expressed his sympathy so kindly for poor creatures like me, who can neither read nor write."

"One thing is evident, my dear Mariette, he certainly deceived you."

"But did you receive my letter at Dreux?"

"It must have reached that city after I had left it," he said, unwilling to admit that it had been addressed to Paris. "But never mind it now," he added, anxious to drop a conversation which pained him so deeply; "we are happy and—"

"Yes, you are happy enough," put in Mme. Lacombe, "but what about me?"

"What do you mean, godmother?" asked Mariette.

"I mean that I will never consent to such a marriage," she said harshly.

"But my dear madame—" began Louis.

"Tut, tut, tut, soft words won't blind me, young man;" she interrupted roughly. "If you are the son of a public writer, you are as penniless as Mariette; and two miseries united in marriage are worth three single ones. My goddaughter has enough of me to support, without a troop of famished children."

"But, my dear godmother—" protested the girl.

"Don't bother me!" she retorted angrily. "I know your plans; you simply want to rid yourself of me and leave me in the gutter to starve."

"How can you believe such a thing!" cried Mariette, reproachfully, her eyes full of tears.

"Your fears are groundless, I assure you," Louis hastened to say. "I have just discovered that my father is immensely wealthy, but for reasons of his own, he has kept the matter a secret until now."

Mariette gazed at Louis with an air of mingled astonishment and delight at this unexpected information. Then she smiled through her tears and said, with a shade of defiance in her gentle voice: "You see, godmother, that the picture is not as dark as you painted it, we are quite able to take care of you as well as ourselves."

"You are quite ready to fall into the trap, of course," rejoined the old woman, with a sarcastic laugh.

"But, godmother—"

"Don't you see that he is inventing those lies to obtain my consent to your marriage—"

"Madame, I swear—"

"And I tell you there is no truth in it; or, if you are rich, you don't want Mariette. A rich man would never be stupid enough to marry a poor girl who can neither read nor write."

"You are mistaken," said Louis, with dignity; "the son of a rich man does not break the word given in his days of poverty, when his life's happiness depends on that word—"

"Bah! mere phrases and words!" interrupted the woman sharply. "Rich or poor, you shall never have Mariette, until you have assured me a living. I don't ask much; only six hundred francs a year; but I must have it in money, with a contract deposited in the hands of a reliable notary."

"Ah! godmother, why should you distrust Louis so?" protested Mariette tearfully.

"My dear child, I know all about these fine promises," declared Mme. Lacombe. "He will promise anything beforehand; then, when he is sure of you, out goes the old cripple. With you, Mariette, I have nothing to fret about. I may be a heavy burden, but you are a good girl and stand in awe of me. Once married, however, you will both defy me and throw me out of the house. What will become of me, then? Is it my fault if I am a cripple? No! no! I tell you there shall be no marriage unless an income of six hundred francs is placed in the hands of a notary!"

While giving away to these bitter recriminations, the poor creature rocked to and fro, looking furtively at the two young people and watching the effect of her words.

"Poor Mariette," thought Louis, "how she must have suffered! To think of so much affection and devotion rewarded with so much ingratitude!"

"Madame," he said aloud, when she had ceased speaking, "you may rest assured that neither Mariette nor myself will ever forget that you have been as a mother to her; and you shall always be treated with the consideration that you deserve—I swear it."

"Thank you, Louis!" cried the girl gratefully, "I am glad to see that you share my sentiments for my poor godmother, who has indeed been as a mother to me."

"Don't you see that he is laughing at us!" exclaimed the old woman harshly. "He has no intention of marrying you and giving me a pension, I can tell you. If he is really rich, he will cajole you and entice you into a trap; then some fine morning, you will hear of his marriage with another woman—go, I say, and never set foot in this house again!"

"Madame," said Louis, "I shall come with my father to beg the honor of Mariette's hand in marriage, and will at the same time inform you of the advantages I shall be able to give you."

"Yes, yes, those fine propositions will come when I am in my grave," she muttered, as she climbed into her bed and turned her face to the wall.

"It shall be no later than to-morrow," declared Louis. "Good-bye,
Mariette. I shall call with my father to-morrow."

"Can it really be true that, after so much sorrow, we should at last know happiness—happiness forever," murmured the young girl, as Louis clasped her hand tenderly in his.

"Will you ever get done? you are driving me wild with your happiness!" came sharply from the bed. "Go, and leave me in peace!—and don't you dare to move from the room, Mariette! You are dying to go down with that gay deceiver, I know; but when I say no, I mean no!"

The young couple exchanged one last loving glance and, with a whispered: "Good-bye, my darling," Louis was gone, while Mariette returned slowly to the bedside of her godmother.