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,
