the envelopes the two lines of the address she had written so often.
She knew them--those two lines--a man's name, the name of a street--as
well as she knew her own name, as well as one can know the few words
that have represented to us in life all hope and all happiness. She
looked at them, those little square things that contained all she had
known how to express of her love, all that she could take of herself to
give to him, with a little ink on a bit of white paper.

He had tried to turn his head on the pillow that he might watch her, and
again he said: "Burn them, quick!"

Then she took two handfuls, holding them a few seconds in her grasp.
They seemed heavy to her, painful, living, at the same time dead,
so many different things were in them, so many things that were now
over--so sweet to feel, to dream! It was the soul of her soul, the heart
of her heart, the essence of her loving self that she was holding there;
and she remembered with what delirium she had scribbled some of them,
with what exaltation, what intoxication of living and of adoring some
one, and of expressing it.

"Burn them! Burn them, Any!" Olivier repeated.

With the same movement of both hands, she cast into the fireplace the
two packets of papers, which became scattered as they fell upon the
wood. Then she seized those that remained in the desk and threw them on
top of the others, then another handful, with swift movements, stooping
and rising again quickly, to finish as soon as might be this terrible
task.

When the fireplace was full and the drawer empty, she remained standing,
waiting, watching the almost smothered flames as they crept up from all
sides on that mountain of envelopes. They attacked them first at the
edges, gnawed at the corners, ran along the edge of the paper, went
out, sprang up again, and went creeping on and on. Soon, all around that
white pyramid glowed a vivid girdle of clear fire which filled the room
with light; and this light, illuminating the woman standing and the man
dying, was their burning love, their love turned to ashes.

The Countess turned, and in the dazzling light of that fire she beheld
her friend leaning with a haggard face on the edge of the bed.

"Are they all there?" he demanded.

"Yes, all."

But before returning to him she cast a last look upon that destruction,
and on that mass of papers, already half consumed, twisting and turning
black, and she saw something red flowing. It looked like