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
