hich I had been exposed, had quite exhausted me. Clementine's
appearance made me lose sight of all around me. I only saw her, only
spoke to her, until forms and colours were blended before my fading
sight in a confused chaos.

For several weeks I kept my bed and room, a fever having been produced
by the sufferings from my wound. Young M. de Sonnes never left me; he
had all my property removed from Bertollon's house; including the harp,
but not the wreath. They did not know of what value it was to me.

In the meanwhile Madame Bertollon had been acquitted; and M. de Sonnes
told me that the fair sufferer had immediately left Montpellier, and
had gone into a distant convent. He likewise gave me a letter which
had been sent for me, under cover, to Madame de Sonnes, saying, "Madame
Bertollon probably wished us to thank her deliverer."

I took it with a trembling hand; as soon as I was alone I perused it,
and ever since it has accompanied me in weal and woe. Its contents are
as follows:--

"Abbey St. G., at V----,
"May 11, 1762.

"Farewell, Alamontade, these lines, the first I ever wrote to a man,
will be the last. I have left the stormy life of the great world; the
solemn stillness of sacred walls encloses me; I have been able to
disengage myself, without regret, from all that once was dear and
indispensable; I take nothing out of the world except the wounds which
it inflicted.

"Ah! that I could have left these wounds, and the remembrance of the
past behind me. They cling to me to make my last friend, Death, the
more desirable.

"In the bloom of life the black veil of widowhood encircles me; by it I
show to men a mourning which I feel not, and conceal that which
consumes me.

"Yes, Alamontade, I do not blush even now, in this sacred spot, to
confess what I never wished to conceal from you, that I loved you. You
knew it. Alas! you still know it; and it was you who could point the
dagger to a heart which beat for you alone in this world.

"Oh! Alamontade, you have deceived me. You never loved me. I was not
grieved at my unfortunate husband accusing me of the blackest crime.
No. But that you could believe me guilty, could become my accuser;
you, for whom I would cheerfully have died,--that has withered the very
root of my life.

"But no; no reproaches. Noble, and still beloved, you were blameless.
Dazzled by appearances, you sacrificed feeling to friendship and your
sense of justice. You wished