in a less trembling voice this time, "Monsieur Louis."
"I have written that," said the scrivener, still without looking at Mariette, whereupon the latter continued, hesitating every now and then, for, in spite of her confidence in the old man, it was no easy matter to reveal her secret thoughts to him:
"I am greatly troubled, for I have heard nothing from you, though you promised to write me while you were away."
"While you were away," repeated the scrivener, whose face had suddenly become thoughtful, and who was saying to himself, with a vague anxiety: "This is a singular coincidence. His name is Louis, and he is away."
"I hope you are well, M. Louis," Mariette continued, "and that it is not on account of any illness that you have not written to me, for then I should have two causes of anxiety instead of one.
"To-day is the sixth of May, M. Louis, the sixth of May, so I could not let the day pass without writing to you. Perhaps the same thought will occur to you, and that day after to-morrow I shall receive a letter from you, as you will receive one from me. Then I shall know that it was not on account of forgetfulness or sickness that you have delayed writing to me so long. In that case, how happy I shall be! So I shall wait for day after to-morrow with great impatience. Heaven grant that I may not be disappointed, M. Louis."
Mariette stifled a sigh as she uttered these last words, and a tear rolled down her cheek.
A long pause followed. The features of the scrivener who was bending over his desk could not be seen by the young girl, but they were assuming a more and more anxious expression; and two or three times he tried to steal a furtive glance at his client, as if the interest he had felt in her had given place to a sort of distrust caused by grave apprehensions on his part.
The young woman, keeping her eyes still fixed upon her lap, continued:
"I have no news to tell you, M. Louis. My godmother is still very ill. Her sufferings seem to increase, and that renders her much more irritable. In order that I may be with her as much as possible, I sew at home now most of the time, instead of going to Madame Jourdan's, so the days seem long and gloomy; for the work done in the shop with my companions was almost a pleasure, and seemed to progress much more rapidly. So I am obliged to work far into the night now, and do not get much sleep, as my godmother suffers much more at night than in the daytime, and requires a great deal of attention from me. Sometimes I do not even wake when she calls me because I am so dead with sleep, and then she scolds, which is very natural when she suffers so.
"You can understand, of course, that my life at home is not very happy, and that a friendly word from you would be a great comfort, and console me for many things that are very unpleasant.
"Good-bye, M. Louis. I expected to have written to you through Augustine, but she has gone back to her home now, and I have been obliged to apply to another person, to whom I have dictated this letter. Ah, M. Louis, never have I realised the misfortune of not knowing how to read or write as much as I do at this present time.
"Farewell, M. Louis, think of me, I beg of you, for I am always thinking of you.
"With sincere affection I once more bid you adieu."
As the young girl remained silent for a minute or two after these words, the old man turned to her and asked:
"Is that all, my child?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"And what name is to be signed to this letter?"
"The name of Mariette, monsieur."
"Mariette only?"
"Mariette Moreau, if you think best, monsieur. That is my family name."
"Signed, Mariette Moreau," said the old man, writing the name as he spoke.
Then, having folded the letter, he asked, concealing the secret anxiety with which he awaited the girl's reply:
"To whom is this letter to be addressed, my child?"
"To M. Louis Richard. General delivery, Dreux."
"I thought as much," secretly groaned the old man, as he prepared to write the address Mariette had just given him.
If the young girl had not been so deeply preoccupied she could hardly have failed to notice the change in the expression of the scrivener's face—a change which became still more noticeable when he discovered for a certainty for whom this missive was intended. It was with a look of positive anger now that he furtively watched Mariette, and he seemed unable to make up his mind to write the address she had just given him, for after having written upon the envelope the words, "To Monsieur," he dropped his pen, and said to his client, forcing a smile in order to conceal alike his resentment and his apprehensions:
"Now, my child, though this is the first time we ever saw each other, it seems to me you feel you can trust me a little already."
"That is true, monsieur. Before I came here, I feared I should not have the courage to dictate my letter to an entire stranger, but your manner was so kind that I soon got over my embarrassment."
"I certainly see no reason why you should feel the slightest embarrassment. If I were your own father, I could not find a word of fault with the letter you have just written to—to M. Louis, and if I were not afraid of abusing the confidence you say that you have in me, I should ask—but no, that would be too inquisitive."
"You would ask me what, monsieur?"
"Who this M. Louis Richard is?"
"That is no secret, monsieur. M. Louis is the clerk of a notary whose office is in the same building as the shop in which I work. It was in this way that we became acquainted on the sixth of May, just one year ago to-day."
"Ah! I understand now why you laid such stress upon that date in your letter."
"Yes, monsieur."
"And you love each other, I suppose—don't blush so, child—and expect to marry some day, probably?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"And M. Louis's family consents to the marriage?"
"M. Louis has no one but his father to consult, and we hope he will not refuse his consent."
"And the young man's father, what kind of a person is he?"
"The best of fathers, M. Louis says, and bears his present poverty with great courage and cheerfulness, though he used to be very well off. M. Louis and his father are as poor now, though, as my godmother and I are. That makes us hope that he will not oppose our marriage."
"And your godmother, my child—it seems to me she must be a great trial to you."
"When one suffers all the time, and has never had anything but misfortunes all one's life, it is very natural that one should not be very sweet tempered."
"Your godmother is an invalid, then?"
"She has lost one of her hands, monsieur, and she has a lung trouble that has confined her to the bed for more than a year."
"Lost her hand—how?"
