"Who would care for her if I did not?"
"Why not try to place her in the hospital?"
"She would not be admitted, as her case is incurable. Besides, I scarcely think I would have the courage to desert her thus."
"You are indeed a noble girl, my child, and I judged you rightly," declared the old man, grasping her hand in his.
"Oh! my God!" cried Mariette, as she saw his sleeve catch the inkstand, spilling the contents over the precious letter. "Ah! monsieur, what a misfortune!"
"What awkwardness!" exclaimed the writer angrily. "But never mind, I can copy it in a very few minutes. I shall read it aloud as I go on, so that you may suggest any change you may think proper."
"I am so grieved to give you all this trouble," she murmured, evidently much distressed.
"It serves me right, my dear,—I alone am to blame."
As he resumed his work, a violent internal conflict seemed reflected on his features; from time to time a sigh of relief and satisfaction escaped his lips; then again he appeared confused and avoided Mariette's limpid gaze; while she leaned on the table, her head supported on one hand, anxiously and enviously following the rapid pen of the writer, as he traced the magic characters that would convey her thoughts to her lover.
"How much do I owe you, monsieur?" she asked timidly, when he had folded the missive and addressed it.