apers from under his pillow, and immediately put
them back.

"I know all that is in these papers by heart," he said. "For three weeks
I have read them ten times over every day. You shall read them, too, but
later on, when I am calmer, and can make you understand all the love and
tenderness hidden away in this confession. For the moment I want you to
do me a service."

"What is it?"

"Your cab is below?"

"Yes.

"Well, will you take my passport and ask if there are any letters for me
at the poste restante? My father and sister must have written to me at
Paris, and I went away in such haste that I did not go and see before
leaving. When you come back we will go together to the inspector of
police, and arrange for to-morrow's ceremony."

Armand handed me his passport, and I went to Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau.
There were two letters addressed to Duval. I took them and returned.
When I re-entered the room Armand was dressed and ready to go out.

"Thanks," he said, taking the letters. "Yes," he added, after glancing
at the addresses, "they are from my father and sister. They must have
been quite at a loss to understand my silence."

He opened the letters, guessed at rather than read them, for each was of
four pages; and a moment after folded them up. "Come," he said, "I will
answer tomorrow."

We went to the police station, and Armand handed in the permission
signed by Marguerite's sister. He received in return a letter to the
keeper of the cemetery, and it was settled that the disinterment was to
take place next day, at ten o'clock, that I should call for him an hour
before, and that we should go to the cemetery together.

I confess that I was curious to be present, and I did not sleep all
night. Judging from the thoughts which filled my brain, it must have
been a long night for Armand. When I entered his room at nine on the
following morning he was frightfully pale, but seemed calm. He smiled
and held out his hand. His candles were burned out; and before leaving
he took a very heavy letter addressed to his father, and no doubt
containing an account of that night's impressions.

Half an hour later we were at Montmartre. The police inspector was there
already. We walked slowly in the direction of Marguerite's grave. The
inspector went in front; Armand and I followed a few steps behind.

From time to time I felt my companion's arm tremble convulsively, as if
he shivered from head to feet. I looked at him. He unde