ary.

So he sat down, opened a drawer, took out of it a woman's photograph,
gazed at it a few moments, and kissed it. Then, having laid it beside a
sheet of notepaper, he began:

"MY DEAR IRENE: You must by this time have received the little
souvenir I sent, you addressed to the maid. I have shut myself up
this evening in order to tell you----"

The pen here ceased to move. Jacques rose up and began walking up and
down the room.

For the last ten months he had had a sweetheart, not like the others, a
woman with whom one engages in a passing intrigue, of the theatrical
world or the demi-monde, but a woman whom he loved and won. He was no
longer a young man, although he was still comparatively young for a man,
and he looked on life seriously in a positive and practical spirit.

Accordingly, he drew up the balance sheet of his passion, as he drew up
every year the balance sheet of friendships that were ended or freshly
contracted, of circumstances and persons that had entered into his life.

His first ardor of love having grown calmer, he asked himself with the
precision of a merchant making a calculation what was the state of his
heart with regard to her, and he tried to form an idea of what it would
be in the future.

He found there a great and deep affection; made up of tenderness,
gratitude and the thousand subtleties which give birth to long and
powerful attachments.

A ring at the bell made him start. He hesitated. Should he open the door?
But he said to himself that one must always open the door on New Year's
night, to admit the unknown who is passing by and knocks, no matter who
it may be.

So he took a wax candle, passed through the antechamber, drew back the
bolts, turned the key, pulled the door back, and saw his sweetheart
standing pale as a corpse, leaning against the wall.

He stammered:

"What is the matter with you?"

She replied:

"Are you alone?"

"Yes."

"Without servants?"

"Yes."

"You are not going out?"

"No."

She entered with the air of a woman who knew the house. As soon as she
was in the drawing-room, she sank down on the sofa, and, covering her
face with her hands, began to weep bitterly.

He knelt down at her feet, and tried to remove her hands from her eyes,
so that he might look at them, and exclaimed:

"Irene, Irene, what is the matter with you? I implore you to tell me what
is the matter with you?"

Then, amid her sobs, she murmured:

"I can no lon