oincidence! And then--who can tell? Perhaps it was some
glance of hers which I had not noticed and which came back that night to
me through one of those mysterious and unconscious--recollections
that often bring before us things ignored by our own consciousness,
unperceived by our minds!"

"Call it whatever you like," said one of his table companions, when the
story was finished; "but if you don't believe in magnetism after that,
my dear boy, you are an ungrateful fellow!"

A FATHER'S CONFESSION

All Veziers-le-Rethel had followed the funeral procession of M.
Badon-Leremince to the grave, and the last words of the funeral oration
pronounced by the delegate of the district remained in the minds of all:
"He was an honest man, at least!"

An honest man he had been in all the known acts of his life, in his
words, in his examples, his attitude, his behavior, his enterprises, in
the cut of his beard and the shape of his hats. He never had said a word
that did not set an example, never had given an alms without adding a
word of advice, never had extended his hand without appearing to bestow
a benediction.

He left two children, a boy and a girl. His son was counselor general,
and his daughter, having married a lawyer, M. Poirel de la Voulte, moved
in the best society of Veziers.

They were inconsolable at the death of their father, for they loved him
sincerely.

As soon as the ceremony was over, the son, daughter and son-in-law
returned to the house of mourning, and, shutting themselves in the
library, they opened the will, the seals of which were to be broken by
them alone and only after the coffin had been placed in the ground. This
wish was expressed by a notice on the envelope.

M. Poirel de la Voulte tore open the envelope, in his character of a
lawyer used to such operations, and having adjusted his spectacles, he
read in a monotonous voice, made for reading the details of contracts:

My children, my dear children, I could not sleep the eternal sleep
in peace if I did not make to you from the tomb a confession, the
confession of a crime, remorse for which has ruined my life. Yes,
I committed a crime, a frightful, abominable crime.

I was twenty-six years old, and I had just been called to the bar in
Paris, and was living the life off young men from the provinces who
are stranded in this town without acquaintances, relatives, or
friends.

I took a sweetheart. There are beings