irl," others:
"My dear child," or: "My dear (laughter)." And suddenly the nun began
to read aloud, to read over to the dead woman her whole history, all her
tender memories. The judge, resting his elbow on the bed, was listening
with his eyes fastened on his mother. The motionless body seemed happy.

Sister Eulalie, interrupting herself, said suddenly:

"These ought to be put in the grave with her; they ought to be used as
a shroud and she ought to be buried in it." She took another package, on
which no name was written. She began to read in a firm voice: "My
adored one, I love you wildly. Since yesterday I have been suffering the
tortures of the damned, haunted by our memory. I feel your lips against
mine, your eyes in mine, your breast against mine. I love you, I love
you! You have driven me mad. My arms open, I gasp, moved by a wild
desire to hold you again. My whole soul and body cries out for you,
wants you. I have kept in my mouth the taste of your kisses--"

The judge had straightened himself up. The nun stopped reading. He
snatched the letter from her and looked for the signature. There was
none, but only under the words, "The man who adores you," the name
"Henry." Their father's name was Rene. Therefore this was not from him.
The son then quickly rummaged through the package of letters, took one
out and read: "I can no longer live without your caresses." Standing
erect, severe as when sitting on the bench, he looked unmoved at the
dead woman. The nun, straight as a statue, tears trembling in the
corners of her eyes, was watching her brother, waiting. Then he crossed
the room slowly, went to the window and stood there, gazing out into the
dark night.

When he turned around again Sister Eulalie, her eyes dry now, was still
standing near the bed, her head bent down.

He stepped forward, quickly picked up the letters and threw them
pell-mell back into the drawer. Then he closed the curtains of the bed.

When daylight made the candles on the table turn pale the son slowly
left his armchair, and without looking again at the mother upon whom
he had passed sentence, severing the tie that united her to son and
daughter, he said slowly: "Let us now retire, sister."

A HUMBLE DRAMA

Meetings that are unexpected constitute the charm of traveling. Who has
not experienced the joy of suddenly coming across a Parisian, a college
friend, or a neighbor, five hundred miles from home? Who has not passed
a night awak