a little uneasiness. What did they want from him? What hand had traced
those curious characters full of thoughts, promises, or threats?

This day one letter in particular caught his eye. It was simple
nevertheless, without seeming to reveal anything; but he regarded it
with disquietude, with a sort of internal shiver.

He thought: "From whom can it be? I certainly know this writing, and
yet I can't identify it."

He raised it to a level with his face, holding it delicately between
two fingers, striving to read through the envelope without making up
his mind to open it.

Then he smelled it, and snatched up from the table a little magnifying
glass which he used in studying all the niceties of handwriting. He
suddenly felt unnerved. "Who is it from? This hand is familiar to me,
very familiar. I must have often read its prosings, yes, very often.
But this must have been a long, long time ago. Who the deuce can it be
from? Pooh! 'tis only from somebody asking for money."

And he tore open the letter. Then he read.

"My dear Friend,--You have, without doubt, forgotten me, for
it is now twenty-five years since we saw each other. I was
young; I am old. When I bade you farewell, I quitted Paris
in order to follow into the provinces my husband, my old
husband, whom you used to call 'my hospital.' Do you
remember him? He died five years ago, and now, I am
returning to Paris to get my daughter married, for I have a
daughter, a beautiful girl of eighteen, whom you have never
seen. I informed you about her entrance into the world, but
you certainly did not pay much attention to so trifling an
event.

"You, you are always the handsome Lormerin; so I have been
told. Well, if you still recollect little Lise, whom you
used to call Lison, come and dine this evening with her,
with the elderly Baronne de Vance, your ever faithful
friend, who, with some emotion, stretches out to you,
without complaining of her lot, a devoted hand, which you
must clasp, but no longer kiss, my poor Jaquelet.

"Lise de Vance."

Lormerin's heart began to throb. He remained sunk in his armchair,
with the letter on his knees, staring straight before him, overcome by
poignant feelings that made the tears mount up to his eyes!

If he had ever loved a woman in his life it was this one, little Lise,
Lise de Vance, whom he called "Cinder-Flower" on account of the