“One last letter remained. It was written by me and dictated fifty years ago by my writing teacher. Here it is:
“'MY DEAR LITTLE MAMMA:
“'I am seven years old to-day. It is the age of reason. I take
advantage of it to thank you for having brought me into this world.
“'Your little son, who loves you
“'ROBERT.'
“It is all over. I had gone back to the beginning, and suddenly I turned my glance on what remained to me of life. I saw hideous and lonely old age, and approaching infirmities, and everything over and gone. And nobody near me!
“My revolver is here, on the table. I am loading it.... Never reread your old letters!”
And that is how many men come to kill themselves; and we search in vain to discover some great sorrow in their lives.
AN ARTIFICE
The old doctor sat by the fireside, talking to his fair patient who was lying on the lounge. There was nothing much the matter with her, except that she had one of those little feminine ailments from which pretty women frequently suffer—slight anaemia, a nervous attack, etc.
“No, doctor,” she said; “I shall never be able to understand a woman deceiving her husband. Even allowing that she does not love him, that she pays no heed to her vows and promises, how can she give herself to another man? How can she conceal the intrigue from other people's eyes? How can it be possible to love amid lies and treason?”
The doctor smiled, and replied: “It is perfectly easy, and I can assure you that a woman does not think of all those little subtle details when she has made up her mind to go astray.