t is
no small consolation to me to believe it in my power to spare
you, not only a considerable share of personal inconvenience,
but also to preserve you from evils your unsuspicious nature
dreams not of.'

"What does that last part mean, M. Rodolph?" asked Rigolette, much
surprised.

"Proceed with the letter; we shall see by and by."

Rigolette thus resumed:

"'I know upon how little you can live, and of what service even
a small sum would be to you in any case of emergency. I am very
poor myself, but still, by dint of rigid economy, I have managed
to save fifteen hundred francs, which are placed in the hands of
a banker; it is all I am worth in the world, but by my will,
which you will find with this, I have ventured to bequeath it to
you; and I trust you will not refuse to accept this last proof
of the sincere affection of a friend and brother, from whom
death will have separated you when this meets your eye.'

"Oh, M. Rodolph," cried Rigolette, bursting into tears, "this is too
much! Kind, good Germain, thus to consider my future welfare! What an
excellent heart he must have!"

"Worthy and noble-minded young man!" rejoined Rodolph, with deep
emotion. "But calm yourself, my good girl. Thank God, Germain is still
living! And, by anticipating the perusal of his last wishes, you will at
least have learned how sincerely he loved you,--nay, still loves you!"

"And only to think," said Rigolette, drying up her tears, "that I should
never once have suspected it! When first I knew M. Girandeau and M.
Cabrion, they were always talking to me of their violent love, and
flames, and darts, and such stuff; but finding I took no notice of them,
they left off wearying me with such nonsense. Now, on the contrary,
Germain never named love to me. When I proposed to him that we should be
good friends, he accepted the offer as frankly as it was made, and ever
after that we were always excellent companions and neighbours; but--now
I don't mind telling you, M. Rodolph, that I was not sorry Germain never
talked to me in the same silly strain."

"But still it astonished you, did it not?"

"Why, M. Rodolph, I ascribed it to his melancholy, and I fancied his low
spirits prevented his joking like the others."

"And you felt angry with him, did you not, for always being so sad?"

"No," said the grisette, ingenuously; "no, I excused him, because it was
the only fault he had. But no