er that having scrutinized each other under the gaslight, you
exclaimed, "Raymond," and opened your arms to embrace me; then, seeing
the cold and reserved attitude of him who stood silently before you, how
you changed your mind and went your way, laughing at the mistake but
struck by the resemblance?

The resemblance still exists; the young man that you called Raymond, was
Raymond.

One more story, and I have done. I will tell it without pride or
pretence, a thing so natural, so simple, that it is neither worth
boasting of nor concealing.

You know Frederick B. You remember that I have always spoken of him as a
brother. We played together in the same cradle; we grew up, as it were,
under the same roof. At school I prepared his lessons: out of gratitude
he ate my sugar-plums. At college I performed his tasks and fought his
battles. At twenty, I received a sword-thrust in my breast on his
account. Later he plunged into matrimony and business, and we lost sight
of, without ceasing to love each other. I knew that he prospered, and I
asked nothing more. As for myself, tired of the sterile life I was
leading, called fashionable life, I turned my fortune into ready money,
and prepared to set out on a long journey.

The day of my departure--I had bidden you good-bye the evening
before--Frederick entered my room. A year had nearly passed since we
had met; I did not know that he was in Paris. I found him changed; his
preoccupied air alarmed me. However, I concealed my anxiety. We cannot
treat with too much reserve and delicacy the sadness of our married
friends. As he talked, two big tears rolled silently down his cheeks. I
had to speak.

"What is the matter?" I asked abruptly; and I pressed him with
questions, tormented him until he told me all. Bankruptcy was at his
door; and he spoke of his wife and children in such heart-rending terms,
that I mingled my tears with his, thinking of course that I was not rich
enough to give him the money he needed.

"My poor Frederic," I finally said, "is it such a very large amount?" He
replied with a gesture of despair. "Come, how much?" I asked again.

"Five hundred thousand francs!" he cried, in a gloomy stupor. I arose,
took him by the arm, and under the pretext of diverting him, drew him on
the boulevards. I left him at the door of my notary and joined him on
coming out. "Frederick," I said, giving him a line I had just written,
"take that and hasten to embrace your wife and child