t me in a state of complete exhaustion.

As I was obliged to keep to my bed for a few days, I knew that I should
soon get my health again; but my chief consolation was that at last I was
cured. My shame had made me hate myself.

When I felt the fever coming on I told my man not to let anybody come to
see me, and to place all my letters in my desk; for I wanted to be
perfectly well before I troubled myself with anything.

On the fourth day I was better, and I told Jarbe to give me my letters. I
found one from Pauline, dated from Madrid, in which she informed me that
Clairmont had saved her life while they were fording a river, and she had
determined to keep him till she got to Lisbon, and would then send him
back by sea. I congratulated myself at the time on her resolve; but it
was a fatal one for Clairmont, and indirectly for me also. Four months
after, I heard that the ship in which he had sailed had been wrecked, and
as I never heard from him again I could only conclude that my faithful
servant had perished amidst the waves.

Amongst my London letters I found two from the infamous mother of the
infamous Charpillon, and one from the girl herself. The first of the
mother's letters, written before I was ill, told me that her daughter was
ill in bed, covered with bruises from the blows I had given her, so that
she would be obliged to institute legal proceedings against me. In the
second letter she said she had heard I too was ill, and that she was
sorry to hear it, her daughter having informed her that I had some reason
for my anger; however, she would not fail to justify herself on the first
opportunity. The Charpillon said in her letter that she knew she had done
wrong, and that she wondered I had not killed her when I took her by the
throat. She added that no doubt I had made up my mind to visit her no
more, but she hoped I would allow her one interview as she had an
important communication to make to me. There was also a note from Goudar,
saying that he wanted to speak to me, and that he would come at noon. I
gave orders that he should be admitted.

This curious individual began by astonishing me; he told me the whole
story of what had taken place, the mother having been his informant.

"The Charpillon," he added, "has not got a fever, but is covered with
bruises. What grieves the old woman most is that she has not got the
hundred guineas."

"She would have had them the next morning," I said, "if her daughter ha