h the hope of consoling her, but to banish all bitterness
from her regrets. Picture my death to her, not as the expiation of the
innocent whim of her youth, but as that of a happiness too great to go
unchecked. Tell her that there are great joys as well as great sorrows,
and that when they have outweighed the human measure of happiness, the
heart which holds them must break and grow still. Tell her, ah! above
all, tell her that I have dearly loved her, and if I carry her whole
life away with me, I leave her mine in exchange. Finally, madame, tell
her that I died blessing her, regretting that I had but one life to lay
down as the price of her love.

While I write, I see her at her window, smiling, radiant, beautiful,
beaming with happiness, resplendent with life and youth.

Farewell, madame; an eternal farewell!

RAYMOND DE VILLIERS.

XXXV.

EDGAR DE MEILHAN _to the_ PRINCE DE MONBERT,
Poste-Restante (Rouen).

Paris, August 12th 18--.

What I wrote you yesterday was very infamous and incredible. You think
that is all; well, no! you have only half of the story. My hand trembles
with rage so that I can scarcely hold my pen. What remains to be told is
the acme of perfidy; a double-dyed treason; we have been made game of,
you as a plighted husband, I as a lover. All this seems as incoherent to
you as a dream. What can I have in common with Irene whom I have never
seen? Wait, you shall see!

My faithful Joseph discovered that the marriage was to take place at the
Church of the Madeleine, at six o'clock in the morning.

I was so agitated, so restless, so tormented by gloomy presentiments
that I did not go to bed. At the given hour I went out wrapped in my
cloak. Although it is summer-time I was cold; a slight feverish chill
ran through me. The catastrophe to come had already turned me pale.

The Madeleine stood out faintly against the gray morning sky. The livid
figures of some revellers, surprised by the day, were seen here and
there on the street corners. The stir of the great city had not yet
begun. I thought I had arrived too soon, but a carriage with neither
crest nor cipher, in charge of a servant in quiet livery, was stationed
in one of the cross-streets that run by the church.

I ascended the steps with uncertain footing, and soon saw, in one of
those spurious chapels, which have been stuck with so much trouble in
that counterfeit Greek temple, wax lights and the motions of the priest
who officiat