he day, and found ourselves very
hungry. I knew that the "St. Omer" was an excellent inn, and when I got
there I ordered a choice meal and horses for five o'clock the next
morning. Marcoline, who did not like night travelling, was in high glee,
and threw her arms around my neck, saying,--

"Are we at Avignon now?"

"Yes, dearest."

"Then I conscientiously discharge the trust which the countess placed in
me when she embraced me for the last time this morning. She made me swear
not to say a word about it till we got to Avignon."

"All this puzzles me, dearest; explain yourself."

"She gave me a letter for you."

"A letter?"

"Will you forgive me for not placing it in your hands sooner?"

"Certainly, if you passed your word to the countess; but where is this
letter?"

"Wait a minute."

She drew a large bundle of papers from her pocket, saying,--

"This is my certificate of baptism."

"I see you were born in 1746."

"This is a certificate of 'good conduct.'"

"Keep it, it may be useful to you."

"This is my certificate of virginity."

"That's no use. Did you get it from a midwife?"

"No, from the Patriarch of Venice."

"Did he test the matter for himself?"

"No, he was too old; he trusted in me."

"Well, well, let me see the letter."

"I hope I haven't lost it."

"I hope not, to God."

"Here is your brother's promise of marriage; he wanted to be a
Protestant."

"You may throw that into the fire."

"What is a Protestant?"

"I will tell you another time. Give me the letter."

"Praised be God, here it is!"

"That's lucky; but it has no address."

My heart beat fast, as I opened it, and found, instead of an address,
these words in Italian:

"To the most honest man of my acquaintance."

Could this be meant for me? I turned down the leaf, and read one
word--Henriette! Nothing else; the rest of the paper was blank.

At the sight of that word I was for a moment annihilated.

"Io non mori, e non rimasi vivo."

Henriette! It was her style, eloquent in its brevity. I recollected her
last letter from Pontarlier, which I had received at Geneva, and which
contained only one word--Farewell!

Henriette, whom I had loved so well, whom I seemed at that moment to love
as well as ever. "Cruel Henriette," said I to myself, "you saw me and
would not let me see you. No doubt you thought your charms would not have
their old power, and feared lest I should discover that after all you
were but mortal.