dress which she had bought at a second-hand clothes store and refitted for herself, a dress which she kept for great occasions and which she had worn the few times she had gone on little excursions with Louis. With a heavy sigh, she placed the dress, together with a small silk fichu, in a basket to take it to the pawnbroker; and with the basket in her hand, and walking very cautiously so as not to wake her godmother, the girl approached the door, but just as she again reached it Madame Lacombe made a slight movement, and murmured, drowsily:
"She's going out again, I do believe, and—"
But she fell asleep again without finishing the sentence.
Mariette stood for a moment silent and motionless, then opening the door with great care she stole out, locking it behind her and removing the key, which she left in the porter's room as she passed. She then hastened to the Mont de Piété, where they loaned her fifty sous on her dress and fichu, and, armed with this money, Mariette flew back to the Charnier des Innocents to find the scrivener.
Since Mariette's departure, and particularly since he had read the letter received from Dreux that morning, the old man had been reflecting with increasing anxiety on the effect this secret which he had discovered by the merest chance would have upon certain projects of his own. He was thus engaged when he saw the same young girl suddenly reappear at the door of his shop, whereupon, without concealing his surprise, though he did not betray the profound uneasiness his client's speedy return caused him, the scrivener said:
"What is it, my child? I did not expect you back so soon."
"Here is a letter from M. Louis, sir," said the young girl, drawing the precious missive from her bosom, "and I have come to ask you to read it to me."
Trembling with anxiety and curiosity, the girl waited as the scrivener glanced over the brief letter, concealing with only a moderate degree of success the genuine consternation its contents excited; then, uttering an exclamation of sorrowful indignation, he, to Mariette's intense bewilderment and dismay, tore the precious letter in several pieces.
"Poor child! poor child!" he exclaimed, throwing the fragments under his desk, after having crumpled them in his hands.
"What are you doing, monsieur?" cried Mariette, pale as death.
"Ah, my poor child!" repeated the old man, with an air of deep compassion.
"Good heavens! Has any misfortune befallen M. Louis?" murmured the girl, clasping her hands imploringly.
"No, my child, no; but you must forget him."
"Forget him?"
"Yes; believe me, it would be much better for you to renounce all hope, so far as he is concerned."
"My God! What has happened to him?"
"There are some things that are much harder to bear than ignorance, and yet I was pitying you a little while ago because you could not read."
"But what did he say in the letter, monsieur?"
"Your marriage is no longer to be thought of."
"Did M. Louis say that?"
"Yes, at the same time appealing to your generosity of heart."
"M. Louis bids me renounce him, and says he renounces me?"
"Alas! yes, my poor child. Come, come, summon up all your courage and resignation."
Mariette, who had turned as pale as death, was silent for a moment, while big tears rolled down her cheeks; then, stooping suddenly, she gathered up the crumpled fragments of the letter and handed them to the scrivener, saying, in a husky voice:
"I at least have the courage to hear all. Put the pieces together and read the letter to me, if you please, monsieur."
"Do not insist, my child, I beg of you."
"Read it, monsieur, in pity read it!"
"But—"
"I must know the contents of this letter, however much the knowledge may pain me."
"I have already told you the substance of it. Spare yourself further pain."
"Have pity on me, monsieur. If you do really feel the slightest interest in me, read the letter to me—in heaven's name, read it! Let me at least know the extent of my misfortune; besides, there may be a line, or at least a word, of consolation."
"Well, my poor child, as you insist," said the old man, adjusting the fragments of the letter, while Mariette watched him with despairing eyes, "listen to the letter."
And he read as follows:
"'My dear Mariette:—I write you a few lines in great haste. My soul is full of despair, for we shall be obliged to renounce our hopes. My father's comfort and peace of mind, in his declining years, must be assured at any cost. You know how devotedly I love my father. I have given my word, and you and I must never meet again.
"'One last request. I appeal both to your delicacy and generosity of heart. Make no attempt to induce me to change this resolution. I have been obliged to choose between my father and you; perhaps if I should see you again, I might not have the courage to do my duty as a son. My father's future is, consequently, in your hands. I rely upon your generosity. Farewell! Grief overpowers me so completely that I can no longer hold my pen.
"'Once more, and for ever, farewell.
"'Louis.'"
While this note was being read, Mariette might have served as a model for a statue of grief. Standing motionless beside the scrivener's desk, with inertly hanging arms, and clasped hands, her downcast eyes swimming with tears, and her lips agitated by a convulsive trembling, the poor creature still seemed to be listening, long after the old man had concluded his reading.
He was the first to break the long silence that ensued.
"I felt certain that this letter would pain you terribly, my dear child," he said, compassionately.
But Mariette made no reply.
"Do not tremble so, my child," continued the scrivener. "Sit down; and here, take a sip of water."
But Mariette did not even hear him. With her tear-dimmed eyes still fixed upon vacancy, she murmured, with a heart-broken expression on her face:
"So it is all over! There is nothing left for me in the world. It was too blissful a dream. I am like my godmother, happiness is not for such as me."
"My child," pleaded the old man, touched, in spite of himself, by her despair, "my child, don't give way so, I beg of you."
The words seemed to recall the girl to herself. She wiped her eyes, then, gathering up the pieces of the torn letter, she said, in a voice she did her best to steady:
"Thank you, monsieur."
"What are you doing?" asked Father Richard, anxiously. "What is the use of preserving these fragments of a letter which will awaken such sad memories?"
"The grave
