ths, in
discovering this final letter.

"It is for this man that I write, well knowing that he cannot exist.
But, after all, what do I care? Marie and Sauverand will be at the
bottom of the abyss by then, dead no doubt, or in any case separated
forever. And I risk nothing by leaving this evidence of my hatred in the
hands of chance.

"There, that's finished. I have only to sign. My hand shakes more and
more. The sweat is pouring from my forehead in great drops. I am
suffering the tortures of the damned and I am divinely happy! Aha, my
friends, you were waiting for my death!

"You, Marie, imprudently let me read in your eyes, which watched me
stealthily, all your delight at seeing me so ill! And you were both of
you so sure of the future that you had the courage to wait patiently for
my death! Well, here it is, my death! Here it is and there are you,
united above my grave, linked together with the handcuffs. Marie, be the
wife of my friend Sauverand. Sauverand, I bestow my spouse upon you. Be
joined together in holy matrimony. Bless you, my children!

"The examining magistrate will draw up the contract and the executioner
will read the marriage service. Oh, the delight of it! I suffer
agonies--but oh, the delight! What a fine thing is hatred, when it makes
death a joy! I am happy in dying. Marie is in prison. Sauverand is
weeping in the condemned man's cell. The door opens....

"Oh, horror! the men in black! They walk up to the bed: 'Gaston
Sauverand, your appeal is rejected. Courage! Be a man!' Oh, the cold,
dark morning--the scaffold! It's your turn, Marie, your turn! Would you
survive your lover? Sauverand is dead: it's your turn. See, here's a
rope for you. Or would you rather have poison? Die, will you, you hussy!
Die with your veins on fire--as I am doing, I who hate you--hate
you--hate you!"

M. Desmalions ceased, amid the silent astonishment of all those present.
He had great difficulty in reading the concluding lines, the writing
having become almost wholly shapeless and illegible.

He said, in a low voice, as he stared at the paper: "'Hippolyte
Fauville,' The signature is there. The scoundrel found a last remnant
of strength to sign his name clearly. He feared that a doubt might be
entertained of his villainy. And indeed how could any one have
suspected it?"

And, looking at Don Luis, he added:

"It needed, to solve the mystery, a really exceptional power of insight
and gifts to which we must all do