“MONSIEUR:
“It’s a long time since you came to see me, and I didn’t know why you had abandoned me; you seemed to be angry the last time you spoke to me, and I thought you were angry with me, but I couldn’t guess why. To-day I have heard that you are married; I know that you can’t think of me any more, or speak to a flower girl. I take the liberty of writing to you only to say good-bye. I am going to sell my shop and go away to some place where I can be alone, not see anybody, and cry all I want to; for I am very unhappy, and I can’t get over it; it isn’t my fault. I have inherited a lot of money from my mother and an aunt who’s left me all she had, and I have more than enough to live on. But I don’t forget that I owe you everything, that you took pity on me when everybody else abandoned me, and saved me from want. I shall never forget it! Adieu, monsieur! I wish you every happiness in your home; may your wife make you happy! she must love you dearly! Adieu, my dear benefactor!
“NICETTE.”
I read the letter several times. I could not help putting my lips to the characters she had traced. Was that the language of a deceitful woman? And yet I saw—saw with my own eyes Raymond sitting beside her, holding her hands. I knew that he saw her every day; he himself told me so; but could I place any faith in what Raymond said? Ah! if I had not seen him with her!
But why torment myself so? Was she not lost to me forever? was I not married? It did not occur to me to be false to my wife, but I longed to know whether Nicette loved me! I resolved to find Raymond and to try to make him talk; that was not difficult, but to make him tell the truth was no easy task.
It was late, and as my wife might be disturbed by my absence I returned to her, but with the firm intention to visit my old lodgings again, and often.
I carefully folded Nicette’s letter and took it away with me when I left my bachelor apartment for my home.
Who could have told Nicette that I was married? My concierge did not know it; if she had, she would surely have mentioned it to me. It must have been Raymond. But how did he know? I was considering this question as I approached my house, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and saw Raymond! Never, I must confess, had the sight of him afforded me so much pleasure.
“Well! here you are, my dear fellow!”
“Good-morning, Monsieur Raymond!”