"Dear Mr. Suds, did you ever imagine that from the very first moment that you introduced yourself at my father's shop that my heart was no longer my own? Did you know that the attentions of the odious Jacques Millefleurs which my vanity only induced me to encourage, from that time became loathsome to me, and my heart told me too truly the reason why?
"Oh! my dearest friend, if you knew how hard it has been to me to persist in dissimulation for so long, to hide from my father and from Millefleurs that which was passing in my bosom!
"Oh! if you knew the shock I received when I witnessed your arrest and the deadly hatred that I bore towards Jacques Millefleurs for being the cause, oh, then my love! then, I say, you would pardon me all, ay, even the hideous crime I perpetrated for your sake. Know then, my loved one, that it was I—I,—your Pauline, who accused Jacques to the government for conspiring against it, even as he had falsely accused you, and caused him to be arrested and condemned! Know you that whilst your bark was peacefully crossing the channel that Jacques Millefleurs was taking your place at the scaffold? You are avenged, and through me, though I know your noble nature must recoil at such retaliation. Enough, he is judged; peace be to his soul.
"But, alas, evil though he may have been, will his crimes help to wash out one iota of the stain of my guilt? Shall I ever feel the stings of remorse less keenly because I committed the rash and mean act in the very torrent of passion?
"Oh! my friend, I feel I have merited your contempt and scorn for having given way thus to the promptings of my evil nature. I fancy I see you start and shrink back whilst reading these lines, and saying to yourself, 'Can Pauline have been guilty of so black a crime?' No wonder you shrink back in horror and loathing; yet, loathe me as you will, you cannot loathe me as much as I loathe myself. I thought revenge would be sweet, but now the bitterness of remorse has filled my heart. The remembrance of my crime is intolerable to me; it haunts me night and day. I feel that nothing short of the sacrifice of my whole life can do aught towards atoning for so black a deed.
"Yes, my friend, many and bitter have been the tears of remorse that I have shed, very bitter the reproaches I have launched against myself. But to what purpose all this? What should your young and innocent soul know of the torments I bear within? Enough, my resolution is fixed never to be changed.
"Start not, friend, when I tell you that I have renounced the world and its vanities, and intend to retire into a convent, there to atone by a lifetime of fasting and prayer for the fell crime that harrows my soul. I was once vain enough to dream of becoming your bride, but now I am called upon to be the bride of Heaven. Shortly after you receive this I shall have taken the veil. Think no more of one unworthy to find a place in your thoughts. Forgive me if you can. Farewell, yours, Pauline."
"These, gentlemen, are the words of her letter, as well as I can recollect. The letter bears no date or address, but it bore the post-mark, 'Brussels.' As the letter did not appear to crave an answer, I wrote none and thus the matter dropped."
"Poor girl!" broke in Parnassus, with a sigh; "her crime was great, no doubt; but done in the very heat of passion; and then, her repentance is extremely touching."
"Yes," said Mr. Blackdeed, "she winds up in a manner quite dramatic."