u, nee Rouget

Two days later the concierge brought to the atelier, where poor Agathe
was breakfasting with Joseph, the following terrible letter:--

My dear Mother,--A man does not marry a Mademoiselle Amelie de
Soulanges without the purse of Fortunatus, if under the name of
Comte de Brambourg he hides that of

Your son,

Philippe Bridau

As Agathe fell half-fainting on the sofa, the letter dropped to the
floor. The slight noise made by the paper, and the smothered but
dreadful exclamation which escaped Agathe startled Joseph, who had
forgotten his mother for a moment and was vehemently rubbing in a
sketch; he leaned his head round the edge of his canvas to see what had
happened. The sight of his mother stretched out on the floor made him
drop palette and brushes, and rush to lift what seemed a lifeless body.
He took Agathe in his arms and carried her to her own bed, and sent the
servant for his friend Horace Bianchon. As soon as he could question his
mother she told him of her letter to Philippe, and of the answer she
had received from him. The artist went to his atelier and picked up the
letter, whose concise brutality had broken the tender heart of the poor
mother, and shattered the edifice of trust her maternal preference had
erected. When Joseph returned to her bedside he had the good feeling
to be silent. He did not speak of his brother in the three weeks during
which--we will not say the illness, but--the death agony of the poor
woman lasted. Bianchon, who came every day and watched his patient with
the devotion of a true friend, told Joseph the truth on the first day of
her seizure.

"At her age," he said, "and under the circumstances which have happened
to her, all we can hope to do is to make her death as little painful as
possible."

She herself felt so surely called of God that she asked the next day for
the religious help of old Abbe Loraux, who had been her confessor for
more than twenty-two years. As soon as she was alone with him, and had
poured her griefs into his heart, she said--as she had said to Madame
Hochon, and had repeated to herself again and again throughout her
life:--

"What have I done to displease God? Have I not loved Him with all my
soul? Have I wandered from the path of grace? What is my sin? Can I be
guilty of wrong when I know not what it is? Have I the time to repair
it?"

"No," said the old man, in a gentle voice. "Alas! your life seems
to have been pure