d a servant entered, holding on a tray a letter which
a messenger had just brought. Jacques, trembling, took this paper,
overwhelmed by a vague and sudden fear, the mysterious terror of swift
misfortune.

He looked for a longtime at the envelope, the writing on which he did
not know, not daring to open it, not wishing to read it, with a wild
desire to put it in his pocket and say to himself: "I'll leave that
till to-morrow, when I'm far away!" But on one corner two big words,
underlined, "Very urgent," filled him with terror. Saying, "Please
excuse me, my dear," he tore open the envelope. He read the paper, grew
frightfully pale, looked over it again, and, slowly, he seemed to spell
it out word for word.

When he raised his head his whole expression showed how upset he was. He
stammered: "My dear, it's--it's from my best friend, who has had a very
great misfortune. He has need of me immediately--for a matter of life or
death. Will you excuse me if I leave you for half an hour? I'll be right
back."

Trembling and dazed, she stammered: "Go, my dear!" not having been
his wife long enough to dare to question him, to demand to know.
He disappeared. She remained alone, listening to the dancing in the
neighboring parlor.

He had seized the first hat and coat he came to and rushed downstairs
three steps at a time. As he was emerging into the street he stopped
under the gas-jet of the vestibule and reread the letter. This is what
it said:

SIR: A girl by the name of Ravet, an old sweetheart of yours, it
seems, has just given birth to a child that she says is yours. The
mother is about to die and is begging for you. I take the liberty to
write and ask you if you can grant this last request to a woman who
seems to be very unhappy and worthy of pity.
Yours truly, DR. BONNARD.

When he reached the sick-room the woman was already on the point of
death. He did not recognize her at first. The doctor and two nurses were
taking care of her. And everywhere on the floor were pails full of ice
and rags covered with blood. Water flooded the carpet; two candles were
burning on a bureau; behind the bed, in a little wicker crib, the child
was crying, and each time it would moan the mother, in torture, would
try to move, shivering under her ice bandages.

She was mortally wounded, killed by this birth. Her life was flowing
from her, and, notwithstanding the ice and the care, the merciless
hemorrhage co