He pointed to the letter and turned away.

I rose up, sat down, rose up again, reached out a trembling hand for the letter, and read the loss that my heart had already presaged.

My father was dead.

Well as ever in the morning, he had been struck with apoplexy in the afternoon, and died in a few hours, apparently without pain.

The letter was written by our old family lawyer, and concluded with the request that Dr. Cheron would “break the melancholy news to Mr. Basil Arbuthnot, who would doubtless return to England for the funeral.”

My tears fell one by one upon the open letter.  I had loved my father tenderly in my heart.  His very roughnesses and eccentricities were dear to me.  I could not believe that he was gone.  I could not believe that I should never hear his voice again!

Dr. Cheron came over, and laid his hand upon my shoulder.

“Come,” he said, “you have much to do, and must soon be on your way.  The express leaves at midday.  It is now ten, you have only two hours left.”

“My poor father!”

“Brunet,” continued the Doctor, “shall go back with you to your lodgings and help you to pack.  As for money—­”

He took out his pocket-book and offered me a couple of notes; but I shook my head and put them from me.

“I have enough money, thank you,” I said.  “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” he replied, and, for the first time in all these months, shook me by the hand.  “You will write to me?”

I bowed my head in silence, and we parted.  I found a cab at the door, and Brunet on the box.  I was soon at home again.  Home!  I felt as if I had no home now, either in France or England—­as if all my Paris life were a brief, bright dream, and this the dreary waking.  Hortense was out.  It was one of her busy mornings, and she would not be back till the afternoon.  It was very bitter to leave without one last look—­one last word.  I seized pen and paper, and yielding for the first time to all the impulses of my love, wrote, without weighing my words, these few brief sentences:—­

“I have had a heavy loss, Hortense, and by the time you open this letter I shall be far away.  My father—­my dear, good father—­is no more.  My mother died when I was a little child.  I have no brothers—­no sisters—­no close family ties.  I am alone in the world now—­quite alone.  My last thought here is of you.  If it seems strange to speak of love at such a moment, forgive me, for that love is now my only hope.  Oh, that you were here, that I might kiss your hand at parting, and know that some of your thoughts went with me!  I cannot believe that you are quite indifferent to me.  It seems impossible that, loving you as I love, so deeply, so earnestly, I should love in vain.  When I come back I shall seek you here, where I have loved you so long.  I shall look into your eyes for my answer, and read in them all the joy, or all the despair, of the life that lies before me.  I had intended to get that portrait copied again for you, because you saw in it some likeness to your mother; but there has been no time, and ere you receive this letter I shall be gone.  I therefore send the picture to you by the concierge.  It is my parting gift to you.  I can offer no greater proof of my love.  Farewell.”