cked it up; it was a letter, and I recognized
Brigitte's hand. The envelope was not sealed. I opened it and read as
follows:

23 December, 18--

"When you receive this letter I shall be far away from you, and
shall perhaps never see you again. My destiny is bound up with that
of a man for whom I have sacrificed everything; he can not live
without me, and I am going to try to die for him. I love you;
adieu, and pity us."

I turned the letter over when I had read it, and saw that it was
addressed to "M. Henri Smith, N------, poste restante."

On the morrow, a clear December day, a young man and a woman who rested
on his arm, passed through the garden of the Palais-Royal. They
entered a jeweler's store where they chose two similar rings which
they smilingly exchanged. After a short walk they took breakfast at the
Freres-Provencaux, in one of those little rooms which are, all things
considered, the most beautiful spots in the world. There, when the
garcon had left them, they sat near the windows hand in hand.

The young man was in travelling dress; to see the joy which shone on
his face, one would have taken him for a young husband showing his young
wife the beauties and pleasures of Parisian life. His happiness was calm
and subdued, as true happiness always is. The experienced would have
recognized in him the youth who merges into manhood. From time to time
he looked up at the sky, then at his companion, and tears glittered in
his eyes, but he heeded them not, but smiled as he wept. The woman was
pale and thoughtful, her eyes were fixed on the man. On her face were
traces of sorrow which she could not conceal, although evidently touched
by the exalted joy of her companion.

When he smiled, she smiled too, but never alone; when he spoke, she
replied, and she ate what he served her; but there was about her a
silence which was only broken at his instance. In her languor could
be clearly distinguished that gentleness of soul, that lethargy of the
weaker of two beings who love, one of whom exists only in the other and
responds to him as does the echo. The young man was conscious of it, and
seemed proud of it and grateful for it; but it could be seen even by his
pride that his happiness was new to him.

When the woman became sad and her eyes fell, he cheered her with his
glance; but he could not always succeed, and seemed troubled himself.
That mingling of strength and weakness, of joy and sorrow, of an