"It is all over, then," she murmured brokenly. "Nothing—nothing more in this world!—I was too happy. Ah! I am like godmother; happiness was not made for me!—"
Her voice died out in a stifled sob, and a pang of remorse smote the old man as he gazed at her white, set face.
"My dear child," he said soothingly, "pray don't give way to despair."
These words recalled the young girl to herself; she wiped away her tears and, bending down, slowly gathered the pieces of the letter.
"What are you doing?" cried the scribe, in alarm. "Why should you preserve these fragments, which can only recall cruel souvenirs?"
"The tomb of some one we have loved, also recalls painful and cherished souvenirs," said Mariette, sadly, "and yet we do not desert it."
Having replaced the pieces in the envelope, she again thrust it in her bosom; and, drawing her thin shawl closely about her shoulders, turned toward the door. On the threshold, however, she paused hesitatingly and looked back at the old man.
"Thank you very much for your kindness, monsieur," she said gratefully; then, after a moment's silence, she added timidly: "Although there is no answer to this letter, I feel that after so much trouble I should offer you—"
"It will be ten sous, the same as a letter," interrupted the scribe; and without the least scruple or hesitation, he pocketed the remuneration with a sort of sensual pleasure, entirely unimpaired by the girl's wretchedness.
"Good-bye, my poor child," he said, "I hope we shall meet again under happier circumstances."