"You saw mademoiselle?"
"Yes, I saw her; she was in deep black. Her face was covered with a thick black veil—not so thick, though, but I could see a white handkerchief all the time beneath; and I saw her slight figure tremble. I was not near enough to hear her sobs, when they commenced throwing down the earth upon the coffin.
"Oui, mon ami, I saw her walk away—not able to support herself, but clinging for very weakness to the arm of the man whose face I had seen at St. Louis. They passed slowly out of the gates; they entered a carriage together, and drove away."
"It was Remy, I suppose?" said I.
"I do not know," said the abbé.
"And when did you see her again?"
"Not for months," said the abbé; and he sipped his wine.
"Shall I go on, mon cher?—it is a sad story."
I nodded affirmatively, and filled the abbé's glass, and took a nut or two from the dish before us.
"I called at the hotel where monsieur had died; mademoiselle had gone, the concierge could not tell where. I went to the hospital, and made inquiries for a Monsieur Remy—no such name had been entered within a year. I sometimes threw a glance up at the little window of the court; it was bare and desolate, as you see it now. Once I went to the grave of the old man—it was after the tablet had been raised; a rose-tree had been put at the foot of the grave. I did not know, but thought who must have set it there. I gave up all hope of seeing the beautiful Marie again.