ir, with her
little girl in her arms. The child had sunk into a dull lethargic state
never to be broken. Alas! Monsieur--alas! the little one was dead!
Agathe ran and called me. I came in. What a spectacle!... Which of us
should arouse the unhappy comtesse? or should we disturb her? Were it
not better gently to withdraw the dead child and leave the mother to her
_repose_? We thought so. I stepped forward, but courage failed me. I did
not dare furtively to abstract the precious burden from the jealous arms
which even in slumber were clasped tightly around it. Oh! my God!...
While we were standing the comtesse opened her eyes: her first motion
was to draw the child closer to her heart--then to look at us--then at
the little one. She saw the whole. She had endured so much that this
last stroke scarcely added to her wretchedness. She allowed me to take
the child, and Agathe to conduct her to the couch and assist her upon
it. She had held out to the point of absolute exhaustion, and when once
she had yielded she was unable to recall her strength. She remained in
her bed quite passive, while Agathe nursed her without intermission. I
dug a little grave in the garden yonder, and Agathe and I laid the child
in it. The mother shed no tears; when from her bed she saw us carry it
away she looked mournfully on, and as we went out she whispered, "_Mes
beaux jours sont passes_." Soon the grave was filled up and flowers
scattered over it, and we came back to the cottage. As I drew near her
room I beheld the comtesse at the window, supporting herself by a chair,
regarding the grave with an earnest longing gaze which I cannot bear to
recall. As I passed, her eye met mine,--such a look of quiet enduring
anguish, which combined in one expression a world of untold agonies! Oh!
I never could endure a second look like that. I rushed into the house:
Agathe was already in. I called to her to come to me, for I could not
enter _that_ room again. "Wife," I said, "I am going to Paris. Do not
say one word. God will protect us. Comfort the comtesse. Agathe, if I
_never_ return, remember--it is on a holy errand--adieu." I was off
before Agathe could reply. I ran till I came to the main road, there I
was forced to sit down and rest. At last I saw a wagoner going forward;
part of the way I rode with him, and a part I found a faster conveyance.
At night I walked by myself.

"'I had a cousin in Paris, Maurice Herbois, with whom in old times I had
been on