ave me, I am sure, for if you were at
Paris, you would not leave my bedside.

December 25.

My doctor tells me I must not write every day. And indeed my memories
only increase my fever, but yesterday I received a letter which did me
good, more because of what it said than by the material help which it
contained. I can write to you, then, to-day. This letter is from your
father, and this is what it says:

"MADAME: I have just learned that you are ill. If I were at Paris I
would come and ask after you myself; if my son were here I would send
him; but I can not leave C., and Armand is six or seven hundred leagues
from here; permit me, then, simply to write to you, madame, to tell
you how pained I am to hear of your illness, and believe in my sincere
wishes for your speedy recovery.

"One of my good friends, M. H., will call on you; will you kindly receive
him? I have intrusted him with a commission, the result of which I await
impatiently.

"Believe me, madame,

"Yours most faithfully."

This is the letter he sent me. Your father has a noble heart; love him
well, my friend, for there are few men so worthy of being loved.
This paper signed by his name has done me more good than all the
prescriptions of our great doctor.

This morning M. H. called. He seemed much embarrassed by the delicate
mission which M. Duval had intrusted to him. As a matter of fact, he
came to bring me three thousand francs from your father. I wanted to
refuse at first, but M. H. told me that my refusal would annoy M. Duval,
who had authorized him to give me this sum now, and later on whatever I
might need. I accepted it, for, coming from your father, it could not be
exactly taking alms. If I am dead when you come back, show your father
what I have written for him, and tell him that in writing these lines
the poor woman to whom he was kind enough to write so consoling a letter
wept tears of gratitude and prayed God for him.

January 4.

I have passed some terrible days. I never knew the body could suffer so.
Oh, my past life! I pay double for it now.

There has been some one to watch by me every night; I can not breathe.
What remains of my poor existence is shared between being delirious and
coughing.

The dining-room is full of sweets and all sorts of presents that my
friends have brought. Some of them, I dare say, are hoping that I shall
be their mistress later on. If they could see what sickness has made of
me, they would go away