ce required. There is
a God, be pure as he is."

I wrote to the police inspector of the district to come immediately to
me on most urgent business. On his arrival I repaired to Bertollon's
room, while the officer remained without.

Bertollon was still asleep; I trembled, love and compassion overcame
me, I exclaimed, "Bertollon," and kissed him.

He awoke, and I suffered him to wake completely during some indifferent
conversation.

"Tell me," I said, at length, "is your wife really innocent? Had you
poisoned the essence yourself?"

He looked at me with a penetrating glance, saying, "Be silent."

"But, Bertollon, this answer is but a confirmation of last night's
statement. I conjure you, my friend, remove my doubts. Have you done
all you said, or did you only wish to----"

Bertollon rose, and said, "Colas! I trust you are discreet."

"But speak, Bertollon, pray speak! the court will pass sentence on your
wife to-day, let not innocence perish!"

"Are you mad, Colas? Would you become the betrayer of your friend?"

While stammering this he appeared in violent emotion. He turned pale,
and his lips became livid; his eyes stared vacantly. All proved too
certainly that he had confessed the previous night, in the excitement
of wine, circumstances at which he was now terrified, seeing they were
no longer safe in my keeping.

I put my hand on his shoulder, and whispered in his ear, "Bertollon!
dress, take money enough with you, and flee. I will manage the rest."

With a look threatening death, he asked, "Why?"

"Fly, I say, while there is time."

"Why?" he replied, "Do you intend---- or have you, perhaps, already----"

"By all that is dear and sacred to you, fly!"

While I whispered these last words to him, he suddenly jumped up,
looked about the room as if searching for something, which made me
think he had forgotten in his consternation that his clothes lay near
the bed. While I stooped to give them to him he fired a pistol at me,
and the blood gushed down over my chest.

The door was burst open, and the inspector of police entered in terror.
Bertollon still holding in one hand the pistol he had fired, and a
second in the other, looked aghast at the unexpected appearance.

"Accursed dog!" he cried to me, with gestures of despair, and flung the
discharged pistol furiously at my head. Another shot
followed--Bertollon had shot himself. He reeled against me--I caught
him in my arms--his head was sha