d the memory of the good he had
done. He had given the poor and the sick an accumulated treasure of
good works to carry before him into the presence of the God of the
merciful. He died on a wretched bed in a garret, leaving no
inheritance. The poor bore his body to the grave, and, in their turn,
gave him the burial of charity in the common earth. O blessed soul,
that in memory, I still see smiling on that kind countenance, lighted
with inward joy, can so much virtue have been to thee but a deception?
Hast thou vanished like the reflection of my lamp upon thy portrait,
when my hand withdraws the light that allowed me to contemplate it? No,
no; God is faithful, and cannot have deceived thee, who wouldst not
have deceived a child!

XC.

The doctor took a deep and friendly interest in me. It seemed as if
Julie had imparted to him a portion of her tenderness. He understood my
complaint, though he concealed his knowledge from me, and was too
deeply read in human passion not to recognize its symptoms in us. He
ordered me to depart under penalty of death, and induced Julie herself
to enforce his commands by communicating to her his fears. He invoked
the tender authority of love to tear me from love. He tried to mitigate
the pang of separation by the allurement of hope, and ordered me to
breathe some time my native air, and then return to the baths of Savoy,
where Julie should join me, by his advice, in the beginning of autumn.
His principles did not seem startled by the symptoms of mutual passion
which he had not failed to perceive between us. Our pure flame was in
his eyes a fault, but it was also its own purification. His countenance
only expressed the indulgence of man, and the compassion of God. He
thus endeavored to save us by loosening the tie which threatened to
draw us to one common death. I at length consented to be the first to
depart, and Julie swore to follow me soon. Alas, her tears, her pale
face, and trembling lips said more than any vows! It was settled that I
should leave Paris as soon as my strength permitted me to travel. The
eighteenth of May was the day fixed for my departure.

When once we had resolved on our approaching separation we began to
reckon the minutes as hours, the hours as days. We would have amassed
and concentrated years into the short space of a second, to wrest from
time the happiness from which we were to be debarred during so many
months. These days were days of rapture, but th