to myself: 'I will never
leave my sister. And at the hour of death I will tell her all ...'
There! And ever since, I have always thought of that moment when I
should tell thee all. Now it is come. It is terrible. Oh ... Big
Sister!

"I have always thought, morning and evening, by night and by day, 'Some
time I must tell her that ...' I waited ... What agony! ... It is done.
Say nothing. Now I am afraid ... am afraid ... oh, I am afraid. If I am
going to see him again, soon, when I am dead. See him again ... think
of it! The first! Before thou! I shall not dare. I must ... I am going
to die ... I want you to forgive me. I want it ... I cannot go off to
meet him without that. Oh, tell her to forgive me, Monsieur le Cure,
tell her ... I implore you to do it. I cannot die without that...."

* * * * *

She was silent, and remained panting, always scratching the sheet with
her withered nails.

Suzanne had hidden her face in her hands, and did not move. She was
thinking of him whom she might have loved so long! What a good life
they should have lived together! She saw him once again in that
vanished bygone time, in that old past which was put out forever. The
beloved dead--how they tear your hearts! Oh, that kiss, his only kiss!
She had hidden it in her soul. And after it nothing, nothing more her
whole life long!

* * * * *

All of a sudden the priest stood straight, and, with a strong vibrant
voice, he cried:

"Mademoiselle Suzanne, your sister is dying!"

Then Suzanne, opening her hands, showed her face soaked with tears, and
throwing herself upon her sister, she kissed her with all her might,
stammering:

"I forgive thee, I forgive thee, Little One."

_The Horla, or Modern Ghosts_

_May 8th._ What a lovely day! I have spent all the morning lying in the
grass in front of my house, under the enormous plantain tree which
covers it, and shades and shelters the whole of it. I like this part of
the country and I am fond of living here because I am attached to it by
deep roots, profound and delicate roots which attach a man to the soil
on which his ancestors were born and died, which attach him to what
people think and what they eat, to the usages as well as to the food,
local expressions, the peculiar language of the peasants, to the smell
of the soil, of the villages and of the atmosphere itself.

I love my house in which I grew up. From my wind