"Since you insist on it, my poor child, I shall read it," said the old man, readjusting the torn pieces, while Mariette looked on with eyes dimmed with tears, her heart throbbing with anguish. "Here it is."
"My Dear Mariette:
"I write these few words in haste, my soul filled with the sadness of death. We must renounce our hopes, for I must secure comfort and rest for my father in his old days. You know how much I love my father. I have given my word, and we shall never meet again.
"One last prayer: I address myself to your delicacy of feelings and generosity of heart—do not attempt to see me again, or change my resolution. I must choose between you and my father; and if I see you again I may not have the courage to do my duty as a son. My father's fate lies in your hands, and I count on your generosity. Farewell, I can write no more.
"Farewell once more, Farewell forever!
Louis."
Standing motionless beside the writer's desk, with downcast eyes and the tears rolling silently down her pale cheeks, her lips quivering and her hands clasped convulsively together, Mariette presented a fit model for the picture of "Despair," as she listened to the words that crushed her heart with such cruel force.
"There. I was sure the letter would pain you frightfully," observed the old man, looking up as he finished reading.
Mariette made no reply.
"Don't tremble so, my child," resumed the old scribe. "Sit down—here, take this glass of fresh water."
Mariette did not even hear; but still stood gazing fixedly at the torn letter, though she saw it but dimly through her tears.