“Ha! ha! Are you crazy? Haven't I the right to choose the pictures I wish to buy? Is there a law which compels me to buy pictures from this gentleman? I speak to you very seriously, my dear; such fancies as these will make you crazy. There is a great deal of insanity in our present day. Let us take care, let us take care!”
II.
Marie, after reading her brother's letter, was half frantic with terror, as she knew him thoroughly, and understood his bitter despair. She lost no time, but left in the first train. Arrived in Paris, she ran to the little house in the Quartier Latin where Paul lived. She was too excited to take a carriage. The rapid walk seemed to soothe her. In the cars she longed for quicker movement; in the street she wished for wings; at the door she would rather have been at the other end of the world. She dared not go up. She stopped, suffocated with the beating of her heart. If it was already too late—the thought nearly paralyzed her with horror. If she were a minute too late!
Finally, when on the stairs, she wept. Then she dared ring.
“I have wept,” she thought; “he is saved.” Taught by a long and singular experience, the young girl knew that tears were for her the mysterious and certain sign that her prayer was granted. She rang. A servant-girl, without speaking, led her to a bed, and uttered a single word—“Dead”—and then added: “The funeral will take place in two hours. He threw himself into the Seine from the bridge of Austerlitz.”
“He is not dead,” said Marie.
“The registration of the death has been made,” said the woman.
Without replying, Marie looked fixedly at him, and said to herself:
“He is not dead. I have wept; he is not dead. Paul!” she called. Silence. “Paul!” Silence.
She seized a mirror, and held it to her brother's lips. At the moment she took it in her hand she burst into tears. “You will see that he is saved!” she said.